


When The Sun Is Out (I Love Her And She's Loving Me)

by periwinklepromise



Series: Ladies of Marvel Bingo [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Desperate Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex Pollen, The kind of dub-con always implicit in this trope, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22107658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periwinklepromise/pseuds/periwinklepromise
Summary: From this prompt on the kinkmeme:"Whenever I read a sex pollen fic, the sex is always between two people who like or realize they like each other and they lived happily ever after. But what would it really be like to be dosed with something that made you lose control in such a mortifying way? To want to and have to fuck in order not to die? Then realize you had tons of sex with a friend or co worker and you still have to see that person every day."ORNatasha and Bucky get dosed with sex pollen, have lots of frantic sex, then have to face each other and Natasha's partner Maria, resulting in all kinds of awkward angst.Remix for What a Day for a Daydream (Tomorrow I'll Pay the Dues for Dropping my Load)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov
Series: Ladies of Marvel Bingo [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493678
Comments: 122
Kudos: 278
Collections: Ladies of Marvel Bingo 2019





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What a Day for a Daydream (Tomorrow I'll Pay the Dues for Dropping my Load)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713057) by [Teeelsie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie). 



> This is a ship-based remix for an astonishing fic by Teeelsie, who gives blanket permissions for remixing their work. I summarized their worldbuilding for the particular sex pollen at play, but I tried to avoid any direct quotations of their work.
> 
> Title taken from lyrics in “Good Day Sunshine” by The Beatles. The song was inspired by “Daydream” by The Lovin' Spoonful, and the fic I'm remixing uses lyrics from that song, so it seemed fitting.
> 
> Time-wise, imagine an AU where Bucky is found and rescued shortly after the first Avengers movie. No Hydra in SHIELD, no Civil War, no sadness.
> 
> I am using this for my Ladies of Marvel Bingo square Free Space!

“So what is it?” Barnes directs the question to the small screen displaying Deputy Director Maria Hill's likeness. She had been given point for handling this operation, and she just announced she now had news of the unknown gas that Barnes and Natasha had inhaled in one of the laboratories they had infiltrated.

They had been quarantined in the quinjet until the substance could be identified, and Natasha had hoped they would be given the all-clear. But Maria is holding her lips in that tight, precise way she only does when she is biting down loathing. The rest of her face is a placid, hyper-competent mask, like she always has at work, and Natasha radiates deadly calm like _she_ always does at work.

Maria pauses before responding. _She has bad news._ “Pseudophilias-Empulcoitus.”

All the air in Natasha's lungs is pushed out like she has taken a punch poorly. She is on her feet before she finishes the thought that she needs to flee, needs to burrow down and craft a new cover and never be heard from again. But there's nowhere to run.

Barnes is looking at her, she knows he is, but he is blocking her view of the screen, and that is enough for now. “What? What is that?”

“A weaponised pheromone designed by the now defunct Department X,” Maria replies smoothly, and Natasha does not flinch, she _does not_. “Was there anyone else in the vicinity?”

“No, just us, we told you.” Barnes turns to the monitor fully, his back to Natasha. “Do we need to be worried here, Hill?”

“Yes,” she says bluntly, and Natasha can at least appreciate that. “Your findings in the laboratory and your preliminary readings indicate you were both sufficiently exposed to provoke the intended reaction.”

Natasha lets herself deflate and moves back to her earlier seat next to Barnes. It is confirmed, then. She can at least face this with him like an adult. Maria does not glance at her.

Barnes's gaze is focused on Maria with his sniper precision. “What reaction.” His flat tone lacks the lilt of a question.

Maria blinks slowly, and that is the only concession she makes to the horror she is about to reveal. “The uncontrollable need to engage in sexual intercourse, for several hours. Refusal to satisfy that need has proven lethal in all documented cases.”

A blush creeps along Maria's cheeks, and Natasha wants to lash out and draw blood, but Maria is safe behind a screen, and Natasha is about to … has to … She huffs and folds her arms.

She is acting like a child. She _feels_ like a child. She wants to vomit. “Is it possible that the serum will inhibit the reaction?” It could, right? Maybe nothing will happen. There has to be a way out, there is always a way out. If Barnes does not react, Natasha will not react either, and they can just get back to New York and pretend that nothing ever happened. Because nothing will have happened.

“Highly unlikely. Empul was designed not to trigger immune responses; we have no reason to believe Agent Barnes will not respond to the pheromone.”

Natasha sinks back into herself. She likes enemies she can see, can sense, can overcome. She does not like this impending sense of mutiny, the knowledge that she will soon lose all sense of herself and become some quivering, desperate thing, and it would be no one's fault but her own. She should have cleared the room. Should have been more careful. Should have known somehow.

She rubs at her temples. A headache caused by fruitless hindsight would soon be the least of her worries.

“Agent Barnes,” she hears past her hands. “Might I have a moment with Agent Romanova?”

Barnes does not respond right away, and when Natasha moves her hands away from her face, Barnes is looking at her oddly, almost worried. “Okay,” he says slowly, seeing something in her eyes, and he is still staring at her as he leaves the cockpit.

“Natasha,” Maria says hesitantly, and she reluctantly turns to the screen to meet her gaze. Her eyes are sad.

Natasha tears her eyes away. “I am sorry,” she whispers, barely making any noise at all, but Maria knows how to read lips, how to read _her_.

“Why are you sorry?” Maria's voice is tense. Edged.

Natasha wants to hunch her shoulders in and hide, but instead she glances behind her at the door Barnes closed behind him. She speaks louder now. “Other than the certainty that I will be engaging in a frankly terrifying amount of infidelity for the next 24 hours?” She might as well get that word out there in the open right away. _Infidelity_. That is what this is. She had promised Maria that she would never be unfaithful, and she is now about to have so much sex she wants to vomit just thinking about it. Distantly, she thinks she could have chosen a better way of being unfaithful to her partner than this.

“ _Natasha_ ,” Maria hisses, and then she looks over her own shoulder. She is at SHIELD's headquarters, and they have put forward a substantial effort to keep their relationship quiet. If they blow it now, that is on Natasha's head too. “Natasha, this is _not_ infidelity. And this is not your fault. I know this is hard for you to hear, but this is beyond your control. This will not be held against you.”

“Right,” she scoffs, bitter as anything. Because lack of control always exonerates her, she thinks. Because she has never been held accountable for things she did not choose to do.

She blames Clint for how easily she leans into sarcasm now. Would it be better or worse if Clint were here instead of Barnes?

Worse, she decides. She would never be able to look Clint in the face again. She is not sure she will be able to work with Barnes again, after this. But they both have experience acting like puppets, and maybe that will make the next day easier to move on from.

She would not bet on those odds.

“Tasha-”

“Maria,” she says over her, before they go too far into a disaster that Natasha cannot possibly handle right now, “We both know this conversation is unnecessary and unprofessional. Barnes and I will … do what we have to do. I promise not to enjoy him too much,” she says with a grimace she tries to pretend is a smirk, standing up smoothly. “I will retrieve Barnes.”

“Natasha,” Maria tries again, but Natasha ignores her, moving to the door. “Agent Romanova!” she snaps out.

Natasha stops, stiff as a board. They had agreed to keep things professional, when they had become involved. It was the only way to keep things functional. This is the first time the personal has ever bled over into a mission; Maria says Natasha created compartmentalization, and Maria herself knows how to bottle things up to deal with after the wrap of an op. Despite the disaster looming over her now, she cannot disregard Maria's orders, Deputy Director Hill's orders. She draws in a deep breath, lets all of the tension in her body bleed out onto the floor, and turns back to the screen, face smooth. “Yes, Director Hill?”

Maria studies her face, eyes critical. “Will you be okay?” she asks quietly.

Her face flinches away in disgust before she can stop it; she is too comfortable with Maria, and it shows. But she does not care for that tone, that careful way Maria is looking at her. “Of course,” she says, and it does not matter that it is a lie, not right now. She shifts back to business. “How long do we have?”

Maria's lips go tight, but she answers the question. “A couple hours. Maybe less.”

Not enough time to be transferred to a more comfortable location, then. The quinjet is not ideal, but she has spent time in worse. So had Barnes. Her gaze flicks to the door to the cockpit. She should get him, she remembers, and she turns back to inform Maria of this.

Maria's eyes are on the door too, and there is unmasked pain on her face.

Maria can say what she will, but she is not pleased with what will happen here. There is a nonzero chance she will never forgive Natasha, and she has to accept that now. When she returns to New York, it is possible Maria will be there as her superior but not as her lover.

She keeps her face clear as Maria catches her eye. She looks distinctly uneasy, and there is nothing Natasha can do to assuage that.

Maria clears her throat and shifts in her seat, leaning slightly closer to the camera. “You know the protocols, Agent Romanova.”

“Secure the quinjet, stay contained for twelve hours after last encounter,” she rattles off. “Yes, sir.”

“Stay hydrated. Try to fuel up before it … starts,” Maria stumbles.

“Yes, sir,” she responds without gritting her teeth, though it is a close thing. She does not want to have the finer details of surviving this outlined to her by her partner. She would rather not speak of it at all.

“And leave the emergency channel open for the duration,” Maria orders her. “We will not allow outgoing calls to disturb you, but I will be available if you need anything.”

Because she wants to have confirmation that her partner of six years will be listening to all the sex she will be having for the next 24 hours. She clenches her jaw. “With all due respect, sir, I doubt you will be able to provide anything I need 'for the duration',” she parrots.

Maria's face flickers.

She almost melts. “If privacy protocols allow, I would appreciate if a note could be sent to Virginia Potts.”

Maria clears her throat. “The nature of this note?” Maria is aware that she and Pepper are friends, and that they have been since her assignment to Stark Industries a few years ago. She knows better to be jealous. Or at least she used to know.

“I may be in need of one of her self care packages. If she has the time, of course.”

Maria's eyes widen and shine, and Natasha berates herself for causing her lover to cry. In HQ, of all places. “Natasha-”

“Are we done here?” she asks, as politely as she knows how. She cannot bear to hear what Maria might say now, does not want to hear the horrors Maria is imagining, does not want to match them to her own list.

There is a beat. And then another. “Yes, Agent.”

Natasha moves to the screen.

“I will see you both in a few days,” Maria concludes briskly, but it lacks her normal edge.

“Yes, sir,” Natasha bites out. Her skin is crawling, and Barnes will not be able to see it like Maria can. She will take the small mercy of slightly less surveillance. She leans her head down into her chest and breathes as deeply as she can. She will not panic. She will keep her calm. She will _not panic. She will keep-_

“I wanted to talk to her,” Barnes says from behind her. She should have heard him approach, the door open. She is slipping.

“I can answer any questions you have,” she says quietly, straightening up. “If I cannot, SHIELD is keeping a channel open for us to contact base, and Director Hill can answer them.”

Barnes throws one leg over the other chair and grunts inelegantly.

He wants to be filled in.

“Pseudophilias-Empulcoitus,” she begins with a sigh.

“Yes, I heard that part,” he snaps at her. “What _is_ it?”

She pulls her professional face forward. “A weaponised pheromone. Think of it as a superpowered aphrodisiac. The exposed are biologically compelled to have sexual intercourse for far longer than the average human is capable of sustaining.” She betrays as much emotion as a computer console.

Barnes remains silent.

She continues, “The drug should begin to have obvious effects within the next hour or two. We will want to have sex, we will not be able to resist it, and if we try, we die.”

Barnes scoffs at that.

“SHIELD found data in a raid several years ago. Samples, documents, video footage. It is real; I have seen it.”

He flinches.

She pretends she does not see.

He adjusts himself in his seat. “How long?”

“Twelve hours is the average. But we were hit with what seemed to be a highly concentrated dose,” she says, thinking of the thick mist that had surrounded them in the offending laboratory, the way it choked her for a moment as she swung to defend herself from a weapon her bites could not harm, “So it could be significantly longer.”

Barnes makes a choking sound. “How significant?”

“Significant enough,” she assures him darkly. “The science behind it is not my strong suit. I am sure SHIELD scientists could explain the finer points.”

“Don't think I'll wanna have that talk,” he admits, tugging at his hair. “Not sure I wanna have this one either, but might as well get it over with. The sex. It has to be together?”

“Yes,” she says, tightly closing her eyes. “It has to be together, and it has to be a lot, and if we try to resist, our bodies overheat until we die. The drug inspires bonds, and the drug insists on being satisfied. It alters brain chemistry in very specific ways – homeostasis, hormones, sex drive. Orgasms alone will not be sufficient. Will power will not be sufficient. There is no way out of this. We,” she takes a deep breath. “Have to do this. If it is any consolation, we will want each other very much. We will enjoy it, while it is happening.”

Barnes breathes in slowly. “Small consolation.”

“You could do much worse.”

He gives her a hard look like he is less than impressed with her defense. He scrubs at his face, probably to hide how unsettled he seems. “We have sex and we're fine?”

“Yes.”

“No lasting effects to worry about?”

“None that we know of,” she tells him, and that is all she knows to tell him. Emotions are messier, harder to operationalize. She will not speak to him about shame.

“Alright,” he announces, standing up and brushing himself off. “We do what we gotta and we move on.”

“Easy as Tiraspol,” she agrees, standing with him. That had been an exceedingly annoying op, sloppy, resulting in the deaths of two SHIELD agents. “There are matters we should attend to.” She moves past him to the small med bay at the back of the quinjet. She hears Barnes follow, but she does not look behind herself as she steps into the bay and takes down the primary kit. It has all of the usual supplies, as well as a vat of petroleum jelly. Not ideal for lubrication, in another setting, but it is long-lasting, and latex will not be a concern here. She can worry about bacteria later. Incidentally, the kit also has basic menstrual hygiene supplies. She is very pointedly not thinking about why she will need them after the pheromone loses potency.

She stops by the galley next, and Barnes helps her grab cases of water and boxes of the specialized meal replacement bars SHIELD likes to keep on hand for long ops. With half a glance, he understands they should drink as much as they can, and they may take their time drinking to justify their continued silence, but neither will admit it.

With a nod, she guides him to the bunkroom, tossing their gear down in a corner and pulling out one of the bunks from the wall.

“I'll get the cams,” he tells her, already pulling out one of his knives and undoing the portside vent.

Good, she thinks, she will not have to tell him. It was distasteful, explaining SHIELD'S surveillance to Rogers.

“Ya think they woulda watched?” he asks her quietly, moving to the bug hidden in the light fixture.

“Record for archives, if nothing else,” she responds. “Your responses as a subject with super soldier serum would surely provide some scientist with worthwhile data.”

Barnes gives the ghost of a laugh as he moves to the starboard cam, embedded in the frame of the bunk. “That's comforting.” He stomps the surveillance tech into little pieces and kicks them into another room.

Natasha slumps to the ground and sips on another bottle of water. In the videos, the affected do not stop for water or food. They fuck themselves past the point of exhaustion.

Barnes is strong. Has stamina. There are rumors about the size of his …

She drinks more water and swallows down the panic.

Barnes joins her on the ground of the bunkroom, sipping on his own water. “So how do ya wanna do this?”

She does not want to do this. But she will not say that. “There is not much point in planning. Department X's … subjects did not exhibit much propensity for it.”

“Still. Anything I should avoid?”

 _Sex_ , the scared part of her hisses. _Touching me. I will end you._ “Pinning me down would be a bad idea,” she says with as measured a voice as she manage.

“Likewise.”

Some small part of her is pleased he acknowledges her ability. The rest of her is finding a new fear – can their worst selves be triggered by this? Most people would fuck themselves half to death; what if they actually try to kill each other? There is a nonzero chance he would win, and even if she won, how would the drug respond? Would she die either way? She has never had to seriously consider death before; she has always been confident in her superiority to everyone else.

Now she is the same as everyone else ever drugged this way. Desperate. Defenseless. Vulnerable.

She clenches her fist. “Understood.”

“Whatever it's worth, I consent to this. That's what people say nowadays, right? Consent?”

“You cannot consent,” she insists. “You do not know, you have not seen.” People begging, people desperate, people fucking until they could not move, people separated from their bonded pair and dying, writhing in pain. The videos were horrible. She wishes now that she had not watched them, wishes she did not know exactly what she is about to suffer.

Ignorance would not keep her safe.

“But for what it is worth, I consent too. I will not hold this against you.” She taps her fingers nervously against her bottle, stilling them quickly.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

She snorts. Asking for permission to ask something personal, when they will be fucking each other's brains out within an hour or two. “Sure.”

“You and Hill.”

He says nothing else.

He is a talented sniper, almost as good as Clint. He can see, he has seen, the call, he must have noticed. She bites down the spiral. The secret is insignificant in their current situation. “Yes?” she prompts him.

“Never seen her ask to talk to half a unit before.”

They have made a good unit, she knows; it saddens her somewhat, to know they will never want to work together again. But she refuses to make this easy for him. “And?”

“You two together?” he asks, flat out.

“Yes.” She flicks her thumb against the label of her bottle. “We keep it quiet at SHIELD.”

He nods, as if it is only a mild curiosity. “Anyone know?”

She nods slowly. “Fury. Coulson. Barton. No one else needs to know,” she says pointedly. If everyone finds out after this, Maria will forgive her even less than just for being so unfaithful, for letting someone else touch her, for putting SHIELD's shiny red star in unnecessary peril.

“Understood,” he confirms. “I thought it was okay now, though. Ladies together. All … progressive and shit.”

“It is. SHIELD has no issue with agents' sexuality, though her being my superior complicates things. We are simply private people.” She pauses. Maria has her own reasons, and they are not important here. “I wanted to keep things quiet,” she says instead. It has the benefit of also being true. She likes living in a place where it is possible to keep secrets. To have some things to herself.

She would lose Maria soon. They would not be able to move past this. It took years for Natasha to thaw out enough to really be _with_ Maria; this would set it all back. Maria would not want to be with her again.

Their last time together had been a week ago, before she shipped out to set up for this op. It had been a little rushed and very silly. Maria kept laughing because the fuzzy blanket they stored on the living room couch was tickling her, so Natasha kept laughing at her. It had been easy, and fulfilling, and fun.

There are things she should have said. She should have said _I love you_ more often. Maria would not let her now.

When she joined SHIELD, she was guaranteed no honeypot ops. No more sex for a mission, it was in the contract she signed when they agreed not to kill her. They had not considered this situation when they wrote that contract.

“So are you,” Barnes clears his throat, “Ya know, closeted?”

“I do not think of myself as such, no.” Useless concept, in her case, but she knows the idea is suitable for many. For Maria, for many years.

“And are you bi?” There is a strangely hopeful lilt to his question.

She is distracted by his knowledge to even ask. “You have been briefed on bisexuality?” It is not generally worth her time to review his studies bringing him up to date for this decade.

He shrugs and explains, “Tony.”

She tilts her head in understanding. “I am not bisexual, no.” Professionally speaking, having sex with men in order to kill them did not alter her personal orientation.

Barnes huffs, banging his head against the wall they both lean on. “Fuck. You don't even ... _fuck_!” So he hoped they could at least pretend to want this, then. Understandable. Not going to happen. “God, don't kill me for any of this.”

She smiles despite herself. “I will consider your request.”

“Is Hill gonna kill me for this?” he prods.

The smile fades, but at least she does not flinch. “No. She is far too professional for that.”

His breath catches oddly. Remorse, reluctance. “I'm sorry, Nat.”

“It is not your fault,” she reminds him. It is hers. She should have secured the room, she should have secured better intel-

“It's not yours either.”

“We can say that all we want, but -”

“But I'll be the one fucking a dame who doesn't like dudes,” he says over her, “So I'm still sorry.” His hands are shaking, and he clenches them into fists. “Back as the Soldier, some of the higher ups used to... they liked to... I never thought I'd be on the other end of it.”

His voice is haunted.

Her voice used to sound the same.

She wants to assure him that he is not on the other end now. She wants to assure herself that she is on neither end. She wants to vomit, to expel the evil roiling in her stomach and racing through her bloodstream and sinking into her brain. “We do not have a choice in this. You would not do this if you had a choice. No one will hold this against _you_.” She does not mean to sneer the last word, but she does.

He notices. “But she will hold it against you?”

She does not respond. She stares straight ahead and does not let her lip shake. She breathes deep, sighs, and admits, “I promised her I would not. When we became serious, I promised her I would not touch another person in this way, that I would be faithful. That this was for us. And now ...” Now she will spend a day with another person, a _man_ , touching him, and in the moment at least, she will want it. The data is quite clear on this fact, the subjects always desperately want it all. They beg. They moan. They cannot stop themselves. They cannot stop.

“I'll kick her ass for you, if you want.”

She laughs in spite of herself, a quick burst of amusement. “You can try,” she taunts him. Maria might let him get in a few good hits, but everyone underestimates her, thinks she's a simple-minded soldier incapable of creativity. But she follows Fury because she chooses to do so, not because she needs someone to follow. She is formidable; Natasha would not be involved with someone less.

So she will never be involved with anyone ever again.

The loneliness looms.

She finishes her water bottle, tosses it in the recycling chute, and excuses herself to the bathroom. What little hydration she has accomplished will not mean much, but any mote might help. She uses the facilities, washes her hands, and splashes cool water on her face. She feels a little warm, to her own touch, but she cannot determine if it is a result of the drug or the shame.

Natasha fishes a hair tie out of her uniform pocket and piles her hair on top of her head. The nest this marathon will make … she may have to cut it all off. She looks away from the small mirror, resting her hands on the small counter and leaning heavily upon them.

An image flashes through her mind – two hands, one flesh and one metal, on her hips, thickness sinking into her. Her legs tense as she shivers.

So they have less than an hour, then.

She pads quickly to the bunkroom and nods to Barnes as she unzips her uniform. “This gives most people trouble, and I am fond of it,” she explains, shucking the tight cloth and folding the strong fabric into a clean square. She remains in her boxer briefs and sturdy sports bra, as they are far easier to take off, and she is not quite ready to be naked around him. She may not ever be. She places her neatly folded uniform near the door, takes the battery out of her SHIELD phone so it cannot be used to gather information on them, and turns back to Barnes. “Need a hair tie?” There are spares still in her uniform.

“Nah, I'm good,” he says, twisting one out of his own pocket and tying his hair up away from his face. “You wanna be on top?”

She stills, explaining slowly, “I am not sure we will have the mental faculties to choose sexual positions.”

“But if we do,” he insists, gray eyes flashing. “You want top, or nah?”

“Um,” she says eloquently as she slides back down into sitting next to him. “Sure.”

With that … possibly settled, all they can do is wait.


	2. During

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants him, more than she thought she could want him, but the thought still registers that this is false, this overwhelming desire pulsing through her is false.

She and Barnes have not spoken for the last twenty-seven minutes. She does not let him know that she is counting. They both prefer to be quiet before missions, not encouraging of Stark's preliminary showboating. After the battle has been well fought, many join him in jocularity, even Barnes sometimes as he grows more comfortable with the team, but before a mission, he is every bit the distant sniper the team first met just a year ago, a few short months after the Battle of New York. Calm and in control. Barnes knows how to sit still, how to wait patiently, how to stay calm.

Normally, Natasha knows this too, but she feels an anxious tension under her skin. She wants to claw it out and burn it. She refuses to show her nerves, but Barnes can probably sense this in her.

When she moves one leg close to her body to stop it from trying to jiggle, she realizes she is growing wet. She presses the leg even closer and decides to ignore it for as long as possible. She can give in to the reaction some time before it boils her brain, but for now, she rests her chin on her knee and pretends she is not starting to sweat.

They are soldiers. They have scars others would have died from, they have survived cataclysmic falls and ruthless possessions and the brutal erasures of selves that even their other teammates do not understand, and they will survive this as they have survived everything else.

She will survive this.

Barnes stands abruptly, and it takes no more than a second to understand why. His skin is flushed, his pupils are blown wide in his normally calm gray eyes, and his tight black uniform is stretched out from his erection. She licks her lips at the thought of the weight on her tongue.

It has been a while since she has been with a man, but she seems to recall penises were supposed to be smaller than his. They were supposed to be … reasonably sized, the sort of size that could be _reasonably_ expected to fit inside a vagina, without even the necessity of additional lubrication like the petroleum jelly.

This is not reasonable. She does not want to be torn open by this thing, split in half, she does not want this thing, the pain, the blood.

“Natasha,” Barnes says in a broken voice, and it sounds like he has his jaw locked into position at her cunt for hours and has thus gone hoarse with pleasure, and she twists her thighs. He is in abject misery, his face stuck in an apologetic grimace as he clenches his fists. But he is panting, and he is looking at her like he wants to run his tongue along every inch of her skin, and she is looking at his lips like she wants to let him...

She scrambles to her feet and finds some semblance of security by standing in the corner and pressing herself tightly to the cool walls. Bucky looks delicious, warm and strong, and she wants to run her fingers through his hair and over his shoulders as she rides him. She throbs at the thought of him inside her, filling her.

She wants him, more than she thought she could want him, but the thought still registers that this is false, this overwhelming desire pulsing through her is false. She _wants_ this, but she _does not want_ this. This is every man she has ever touched, every man she has never wanted to touch, and she could escape the Red Room, but she could not escape this.

Bucky moves first, reaches for her, and presses her firmly into the corner as he devours her mouth, as if his happiness can be found at the back of her throat, and she wants him to find it. He pulls her to him, hot and tight, and totes her over to the bunk.

Her body jolts at the wrongness of his, too tall, too broad of shoulders, strange configuration of muscles, no soft curves, no familiarity. She has never touched him like this, has never wanted to touch him like this, and for a moment she thinks of the right body, of Maria, of soft, melon-scented skin over strong, wiry muscles, of those piercing blue eyes that always soften for her. She flinches back in her own mind, and she promises herself she will not think of Maria again, she cannot possibly think of Maria again, not if she is going to survive this.

And Bucky is pulling her to the bunk, and she is following him down, and their limbs do not tangle into each other, just arrange themselves neatly as she straddles him. He thrusts up against her, and she should be embarrassed by the whiny noises escaping her mouth, but she cannot stop herself, she cannot, she must –

“Barnes, Buck, wait,” she says, and he pushes her away, hard, and his face shows only horror. Even encumbered like this, she does not fall to the floor, stumbling a step back from him.

His eyes are shut tight as he slaps his hands to his face. “I'm sorry, Nat, _fuck,_ I'm so sorry.”

“No,” she huffs.

His hands drop to his lap, and she does not think he means to, but he is rubbing himself through his tight tac pants, and he is supposed to wear a cup under there, but he has definitely removed it, thick cock straining against the fabric to fit into his fist. “Fuck, Nat, I need _something_ ,” he admits, voice strained tight in desperation.

“Me too. Clothes off, now,” she orders him.

He snaps to it, shucking the double-breasted flak jacket and his tac belt and tossing them off the bunk before moving to the grip glove he wears over his metal hand. Then he raises his hips as he works at buttons on his pants to remove them, and her mouth floods at the sight of all that skin rippling, the play of his hips lifting off the bed, and she imagines him bucking into her mouth, out of control with how much he wants her.

She unzips her sports bra and shoves off her boxer briefs and joins him on the bunk as he finishes kicking away his pants. He had disposed of his boots too, how had she not noticed that?

His cock is enormous in his hand, intimidating in a way she would never admit aloud, and she is not convinced that it will fit inside her even with the lube, but it has to, somehow.

Nat shoves the jar of petroleum jelly at him, and he fumbles with it, slathering it on his cock with his flesh hand, and maybe she should have considered what that petroleum would do to his metal hand, but it is far too late to voice that concern.

He tosses the jar aside, and then she is caught up in his arms as he spreads her out along the bunk and rubs his cock up and down her slit, letting out a long string of profanity proving his Brooklyn birth. Bucky's breath is hot and heavy in her ear, thick arms straining deliciously to connect them only at this one burning point of contact, and it is not enough, it is not nearly enough.

“Nat,” he chokes out, “Can I? Can we now?”

She is breathless with wanting, the head of his cock throbbing against her clit with each stroke, and she needs, she needs. She cannot remember why she was nervous before, because the weight of his cock is all she could ever want. “Come on, come on,” she finds herself muttering, hands grasping at his hips, trying to pull him closer.

“Yeah?” he asks, thrusting hard against her.

The friction sparks lust all down her spine, and she wants to be surprised that he has the presence of mind to ask for consent, but all of her own mind is focused on the exact angle of his dick and how good it will feel inside of her, so she pants back, “Yeah, yeah, come on.” She cannot tell if this drive is lust or simply impatience, but she knows it must be satisfied.

He nods frantically, she can feel his breath swishing across her hair, and then he is dipping his hips down and away, then up and close, so close.

Something inside her melts, gives way, and Bucky must feel the same thing, because his body falls heavily against hers, muscles lax. The Empul, she thinks. The relief is overwhelming, but the drug is not sentient, how can it possibly know that he is finally inside her? Endorphins, the Empul releases frankly massive amounts of endorphins, that must be the cause.

She shrugs it off, a dangerous twinge low in her pelvis reminding her that pain will come soon, and Bucky gasps so forcefully he almost chokes. He shivers hard, cock throbbing inside of her, and she jolts in response, biting back the pain and the curse words she would like to say, trying to separate the pain out from the pleasure of it all so she can bury it down and ignore it, but they are awfully mixed.

She cannot take a deep breath like this, but all the same, she loses herself to the sensations, the pleasant ones, the push and pull he orchestrates at her hips and at her lips, the strength of his shoulders underneath her hands, how he kisses dripping wet and stretching long and lovely, just lovely, she could kiss him for days.

Then he moves her legs further apart, loops one over his metal arm, cool against her overheated skin, and the stretch still feels good, feels right, but she knows this stretch will hurt later, remembers that she did not take things slowly as she should have. She should have stretched herself carefully, should have fantasized beforehand for ten or twenty or thirty minutes, should have teasingly played with her breasts and gently tugged at her hair and had him lower his mouth and eat her out – but no, she would never have let him, and no matter how fastidious her foreplay, she would still be bruised and rubbed raw tomorrow, dehydrated and exhausted and probably limping -

“Fuck, Nat,” he mutters against her lips, and she nips back at his before he claims her mouth again.

Bucky pushes himself far longer than she can ever remember a mark trying, and she bites back the begging for more and harder and faster and _more_ , because she refuses to seem so desperate, because she fervently believes that he is already giving as much as he can possible give.

The serum will give him more than any other subject has ever had. What if it does not fade after twelve hours? What if he keeps fucking for days? What if-

He grips her hips tightly, shoves so hard she skids up the bunk closer to the makeshift headboard, and then abruptly stills, all except for the cock inside of her that is pulsing, and he is clearing coming inside her, and she does not remember other men coming quite so copiously either. She does not know the cause, the drug or the serum, or if possibly this has always been the case for Bucky, but she has not come, and the press and pulse of it darts to the front of her mind as Bucky heaves, breathless above her.

She pushes at his shoulder, and he allows her to flip them over. She presses into him, hands firm on his ribs as she starts to ride him. Her hands itch to press down on his shoulders, let her dip closer to him and kiss him senseless, but she remembers he does not want to be held down, and she does not want that either, and as long as she can almost think clearly, she needs to respect what few boundaries they could construct.

So she balances over him as best as she can, and ruts frantically against him until she feels heat coil in her gut and release all down her limbs. She does not get any time to enjoy it, though, because Bucky responds immediately, slamming up into her wildly and making her bounce uncomfortably until she finds his rhythm and tries to move with him. Overall, he holds her hips tightly into place and thrusts up into her with the force he normally reserves for pummeling hostiles with his fists. He comes again, quick enough to be embarrassing if this entire debacle was not mortifying, and then she decides it is her turn again.

She lifts her hips straight off his cock, and he whines, reaching after her. A thick ribbon of his come slides out of her and onto the bed, and she winces at the clammy sensation. This is _disgusting_ , Nat thinks, and they will certainly soak through the mattress before this is all over. SHIELD will have to burn this once they are through, she realizes, and she wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the need grabs her again, and she starts rubbing herself against his cock insistently, chasing her own orgasm.

It is nothing calm and quiet like she normally is, it is hungry and needy, and she always needs more, more, _more_. With Ma- by herself, she can take her time, she can try to enjoy it, she can be sleepy and easy and melt into it, but now she wants it like her marks always wanted her, and she shudders, repulsed, and then even _that_ makes her want more, because _fuck_ that felt good against her clit. She snaps her hips until that thread of wanting goes brittle rigid and breaks, pulsing through her until she collapses onto Bucky.

For a moment, they simply breathe together, and then he is pushing his tongue forward into her mouth and thrusting it in like fucking her mouth will make him come, and with the Empul, it might be possible. His hands are gripping at her hips and ribs and thighs, over and over, and she adjusts her legs up tight against his sides. His hands maneuver her into position and then he is holding her wide open and slicking himself into her, an odd wet sound squelching before she realizes she must have dripped his come onto his cock and now it is being forced back into her.

She will never look at any ejaculate ever again, once she makes it out of this. And she may never look at Bucky ever again either.

Then he is kissing down her chin and jaw and pieces of her neck that he can reach without moving her away from his cock, and she is distracted by wanting his mouth on her throat and tits and cunt, fuck, _yes_ , he sucks on her neck just under her ear and she bucks and he pushes in deeper and harder. With each thrust, she lets out a little whine of pleasure, shaking above him.

“Fuck,” Bucky says against her neck. “Can we switch? Can I?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, pulling away from his mouth and moaning at the loss. “Yeah, it's fine.”

He flips her to her side instead of on her back, she notes with some relief, and he holds her left leg up in the air so he can more easily pound into her. She tries to hold some of her own weight and stay balanced and keep breathing, but each pulse punches out all the air from her lungs, and she wants it, wants him more than anything, but some tiny part of her mind whispers that that is not true.

They go on this way for hours, time stretching out until it is meaningless, their bodies twisting into a dozen different positions like they cannot settle into anything comfortable. They discover easily enough that Natasha being on top works for her but does not help Bucky have his own orgasm, so they take turns being on top, being in control. Over and over, Nat rides him until she comes, and then Bucky tosses her down onto the bed to fuck her through the mattress. Over and over, they switch and pull and kiss and fuck and they cannot possibly do anything else.

Far past when a person would black out from exhaustion, they continue fucking, the Empul pushing them to keep going, to do more. Slowly, the serum makes its presence known again. Natasha starts giving Bucky another turn after he has just finished coming, because his face is still beet red with needing more, his eyes wide and glazed over. Then the interval shortens, then again, until he fucks her two or three times and she spins to come just once before being pushed into the bed again.

She is on top again, her thighs burning, but she cannot stop now, she's so close, she needs to come again. He grips her hips tightly, and the orgasm is wrenched out of her, all her muscles clenching too tight, and she cannot breathe.

A second later, Bucky has her on her side, too impatient to fully flip her before pumping into her, and every bit of her is exhausted, pushed past the brink, her mind fuzzy like she has gone for three days without sleep, and it is becoming hard to keep her eyes open and her mouth closed.

“Buck,” she mumbles at him. He grunts in response, too busy shoving his cock in and out of her to focus, and she tries again. “Buck, I can't.”

He jolts back, pushing her shoulders down flat into the bed so he can see her face. He looms over her, panic on his face even as he ruts against her hip.

“It's okay,” she says. “S'okay.”

“Are you,” he chokes over his fear and disgust, and she would feel worse for him but she just wants to sleep. “Are you sure?”

“S'okay,” she repeats, already turning back to her side like they were before.

“Nat, I'm sorry,” he whispers in her ear, already sliding back into her, and he tries to be gentle, she can tell, but he quickly gives in to the desperate, pounding lust and thrusts powerfully, her body rocking with it.

The serum, she reminds herself. He is still going because of the serum. How long has it been, she wonders, more than twelve hours for sure, possibly closer to sixteen, longer than she had hoped.

Bucky grunts, pours himself inside her, and stills.

She breathes.

Then he groans and starts moving again, not even pulling out all the way, and for the first time since they have started fucking, Natasha worries she could die from this.


	3. After: No Day Copies Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Bucky wake up to the worst "morning after" ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the poem "Nothing Twice" by Wisława Szymborska (trans. Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh), which has no bearing on this fic except that thank goodness Natasha and Bucky don't have to relive the day before, right?
> 
> We also get our first glimpse into Bucky's POV!

Natasha is _burning alive_. Unlike the time she took seventy lashes, her entire body is aflame, not simply her back, and she desperately wishes she could go back to the dark, safe place of sleep, but that is impossible now. She tries to gasp but bites it off quickly when even that motion sends shockwaves along her body, alighting so many sources of shrieking pain she cannot breathe even if she wants to.

She tries to take stock of her situation. The Empul at the lab. The quinjet. The bunk. Bucky, she remembers, curled up behind her, hand still on her hip.

Pain. So much pain. Worse than when she had infiltrated a sex dungeon for the Red Room and been passed around to five different sexual sadists. Worse than when she had run on a broken ankle through two miles in tundra. Worse than when she had had to kill Yelena.

Her head is pounding like her pulse could burst through her skin. Possible side-effect of the Pseudophilias-Empulcoitus. Possible symptom of dehydration or lack of nutrition. Possible effect from mental or emotional stress. She should start with the water and see if that helps, but she cannot possibly move from her spot right now.

She blinks her eyes open, and at least this does not cause any further pain. Bucky's clothes are on the floor, as is the seemingly empty jar of petroleum jelly, and a few empty water bottles from their earlier consumption. She sees the boxes of nutrition bars from the galley still tucked against one wall, close to the first aid kit and her clothes.

Her nose does not seem to be in poor condition, but her cheeks and jaw are aflame, and the most probable cause, she realizes far too late, is Bucky's perpetual scruff that has scraped against her naturally fair skin for at least a dozen hours. She has the most wicked case of beard burn anyone has ever seen, not that she will allow anyone to see her like this.

She purses her lips to check them, and they feel unbearably chapped. She should have saved some of the jelly, she would guess, and they are swollen too, from the facial hair or just the impact of kissing for so long. Her tongue itself feels sore from kissing Bucky so … she wants to wince … passionately. And her jaw and throat are sore too, and the time she tried to suck Bucky off before realizing that the Empul meant he would not be kind enough to _not_ fuck her throat raw probably did not help with that.

All of her muscles are screaming from over-exertion, her shoulders and arms from propping herself above him or holding the bunk headboard to stop him from fucking her into the wall, her core from balancing and tensing, her legs from wrapping around him over and over. Her limbs have moved past the point of rubbery and straight into completely useless.

She cranes her neck down slowly to get a better look, pushes past the sharp pain, and then wishes she had not. Her torso is certainly the worst of it. Dozens of love bites are littered across her breasts. Heavy hand-shaped bruising is strewn down her sides, far heavier on her right side to match with Bucky's metal hand, but offset by the hideous, raging rash on her left. She worries for a moment, before remembering all the ejaculate. It must have soaked into the linens and the bed, and she has slept for who knows how long on that disgusting mattress. She remembers hoping that SHIELD will burn it; she will do it herself, once she can stand up.

But she is convinced standing up will be almost impossible, based on the state of her genitals. Swollen to the point of absurdity, labia completely inflamed and burning hot, pubic hair matted into a mess that she cannot even shave off, because from her navel to almost her knees, all of her skin is a livid scarlet, chapped and chafed from non-stop sex for … goodness, sixteen hours? Twenty? She has no way of knowing how long they went, how long Bucky went after she passed out. There is no way she could bring a razor to that, not for weeks. Using a pad to soak up any blood will be torturous, but necessary.

She will need a mirror to see how bad her hair is, because there is simply no way she is expending energy to check it with her hands. Hopefully, tying it back has inhibited some of the damage, but it will take long moments of pulling her gentlest brush through it, and her arms are far too weak right now to even think about that.

And then she realizes something that she honestly should have noticed much sooner, but in her own defense, she has been very reasonably distracted – his penis is still inside of her. It is not erect, she is sure, but it will be unbearably painful to pull off.

But Natasha refuses to let Bucky wake up still in her, so she takes a long, shallow breath and then forces all of her energy into tilting her entire body forward, away from him. She can hear a ripping sound from where they are joined, and a new flash-bang of pain, but she ignores it and keeps moving until she is pressing her face into a thankfully dry patch of the mattress close to the edge of the bunk. His hand slides from her hip to the small of her back in the motion, which she can only be sure of because even that swipe of skin makes her back scream like his flesh hand is equipped with the claws of a cat. She lets out all of her breath slowly and blinks away the tears that have suddenly appeared in her eyes.

Utterly exhausted from the effort, she falls back to blissfully safe sleep.

*

When Bucky wakes, he regrets it. Woulda been easier to stay under, but it's too late for that now. His body is sore all over, enough for him to notice instead of ignore it like normal, and he gives himself a mental high five for recognizing his pain like his therapist wants him to, before remembering how the pain started.

And then he wants to rip his hands right off.

He practically _raped_ Natasha. His eyes fly open as he shoots up to sitting position to find her. She lies next to him, still asleep, face turned away from him. She looks … battered. Bruised all over, normally pale skin glowing bright red from all the chafing that comes from being brutally fucked for twenty hours. Rug rash on her back from all the friction, shadows of his hands all over her, the metal too tight, he held her too tight, _fuck_ , there's blood on her legs and on the bed in between them, he made her bleed, and fuck, he chokes, want to retch, but there's nowhere to go.

He stares at her torso until he sees her ribs move. She's breathing. There's that, at least, she's breathing. She's alive. He didn't …

He fucked her after she passed out, she was asleep, fucked to fatigue, and Bucky kept going, kept _forcing_ …

He swings one leg over her entirely, biting back a groan from how much the muscles resist the stretch, scrambling over her sleeping form to find room to breathe. He gags, but nothing comes up, probably because he has not eaten anything in, fuck, thirty hours? How long was he even out? They are supposed to give a twelve hour cool-down, but he doesn't even know what time it is now.

He shuffles to the head and rinses his mouth, and it hurts his jaw, but at least the water gets rid of that taste of stale death. Then he makes the mistake of looking into the mirror. Giant bags under his red-rimmed eyes, two extra days' growth on his jaw, and his skin looks like ash. It was a good idea to put up his hair, but the hair where it was pulled to the bun is matted up to all hell, and he may give in to Stevie's pushing to shave it all off now.

Steve. The team. They'll never let him back on the team after this. _No_ way. Fuck.

He bends back to the sink and splashes water on his face. Then he scoops some into his mouth, because fuck, he's thirsty. There are water bottles in the room proper, and he has to face her sometime, so he pads back in, almost silently.

He shoves his uniform into place over his come-stained skin, muscles straining from the marathon they've been through, and then he takes a case of water and a box of those horrible meal replacement bars SHIELD loves so much. Then he stacks on another box, just in case. He moves to the cockpit, since there is not exactly a fucking rec room in the quinjet, and notes briefly that it is 2200 the next day. He lost almost forty hours, between the fucking and then sleeping it off, probably split pretty evenly. Bucky shrugs off that knowledge and pours bottle after bottle of water down his throat without stopping for breath. After four, he switches to the meal bars, chewing mechanically, and flashes of the last day come back to him, _Natasha running away from him when the Empul hit, sucking on her breasts until they were both covered in bruises_ , but he kicks the memories down and focuses on the next bite, the next swallow, the next wrapper to dispose of.

He tells himself he is simply keeping watch. That he would do this on any op, but this is not a mission, and Nat is not bed-bound from a bad tussle with a hostile, it was him. Even when his eyes are open, he remembers the dead gray of her forehead and the blaring red of every other inch of her skin.

But he is shit at lying after being frozen and thawed for the last haffa century, even to himself, so he admits he is afraid to be near her right now. Least he can do is handle one of her fears.

He rights his uniform, worries at his hair, and then decides better of it and switches to audio only. He clears his throat. “Agent Barnes reporting in to base, come in, base.”

The response clicks in immediately. “Agent Barnes, report.” Director Hill's voice is as stern and high strung as he has ever heard it, even when that Hydra building was blowing up with him still in it, and they didn't have any exfil ready because all three potentials had been shot to hell. Even then, she'd kept her cool.

He knows why she hasn't now. He's spent the last day or so fucking her girl, and he really should have thought of what to say before he opened the comms, but it's too late for that. “On schedule. Replenishing fuel now. ETA … five hours.”

… Fuck, that sounded dumb.

Director Hill apparently agrees, her voice tight as a wire. “And Agent Romanova?”

“Asleep,” he admits. “She, uh, will need medical attention.”

Silence pulses through the speaker, and he's happy he didn't turn on video, because he does not want to know what face she is giving him right now. “You will both require medical attention upon returning to base, no arguments.”

She is going to kill him. She is going to flay him alive.

“Understood, sir.”

“Ascertain Agent Romanova's heart rate and monitor her breathing for thirty seconds then return to the comms.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, snapping to. His legs shout their protest from the buildup of lactic acid, but he ignores it, stepping silently to the bunkroom and immediately grimacing at the overwhelming stink of sex. SHIELD'll have to fucking fumigate the entire jet now, he thinks as he pads over to her.

He had hoped she would look slightly better in the thirty minutes she'd been alone, but she looks as miserable as ever. This will not be a quick heal.

He flounders over where to take the pulse, since her jaw and neck are all swollen from rubbing up against his beard for so long. But her wrists are pretty okay, compared to everything else, since he did at least try to not pin her down at all, so he ghosts two fingers over her wrist. Her pulse is reed-thin but steady, and her breathing is shallow even for sleep, but it is regular enough. So probably nothing urgent, she's safe to move.

Bucky goes back to the cockpit and reports to Hill, who agrees that SHIELD Medical can wait to get their hands on her; they cannot risk spreading the drug to anyone else.

And then Director Hill pauses, like she wants to ask something. But she must decide to not, because she finally says, “I will see you in five hours, Agent,” and clicks off the comm link.

He breathes out a massive sigh of relief. Hill knows as well as he does that they're only four hours away. But at least this way, he can eat a little bit more and maybe try to find a sitting position that doesn't put too much weight on his dick and balls, which are frankly swollen in a way he never cared to experience.

But he thinks of himself, of the matted hair and the chafed dick and the sore arms and abs, and compares it to how Natasha looks so vibrantly mutilated, and he has no place to complain. His serum, cheap knock-off that it is, will keep working, soothing away the sore muscles and smoothing down his heated skin, and by the time he reaches base, most of it will probably be gone, but Natasha... how does someone recover from something like this? Is that even in those files they found, or did those X people not care about what happens after their little test subjects fuck their brains out? Are there any whaddayacallits? Long term things? Maybe there are long term side-effects, SHIELD just _doesn't know it!_

He huffs out a sigh. He's freaking out, but he needs to calm down. He practices some of the breathing exercises his SHIELD therapist taught him after he has one of his shocks – panic attacks, they call them now. So he does his fancy breathing, which to be fair to the psych guy actually does help, and then he eats a few more meal bars, and makes a mental note to ask Tony to make ones that taste better, because these get old fast. He drinks a few more bottles of water and watches the clock numbers blink forward.

Clocks don't really tick anymore, he reminds himself. Lotsa sounds are gone now, replaced with new, even more annoying ones, like people's phones going off all the time and people answering 'em even when they're talking to clerks. Rude, he thinks, but then, he's old-fashioned.

He should wake Natasha before they take off, should talk to her, see if she's okay, but every time he even thinks her name, he's assaulted with the memory of what her face looks like when she comes and how tight she was around him but still so wet and how she moaned so pretty. He shakes his head viciously, smacking a little at his temple. Completely inappropriate, he chastises himself. Sexual harassment. _Bad_.

There's no way he can face her right now. Maybe never again. They were good partners, but there will be other partners. If he's not permanently benched after this. Which he probably will be, not that he deserves any less.

He slips back into the bunkroom to get to the head, and it's hard to piss quietly, but he tries anyway. He has to rinse his dick off before he can hold it carefully, since his hair is all gross and his dick's still all sensitive, but even after an hour, it's looking a bit better. Another day or two, and it'll be like it never happened.

He washes his hands, dries them most of the way, and then slides back into the bunk room.

Natasha is awake.

Fuck.

*

She comes to again, slower, better prepared this time for the pain of perceiving. She knows blinking at least does not hurt, which proves helpful when she hears water in the bathroom.

So Barnes is awake.

Natasha watches the door swing open out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to turn fully just yet, and sees the way he stills when he notices her consciousness.

He moves into her line of sight carefully, his face a mask of apology and shame. Her face would surely look the same if she could move it more easily.

“Hey,” he says quietly, fidgeting at his uniform. He stands before her fully dressed, though he has not taken the time to retie his hair. Pepper would weep.

“Hello,” she croaks, feeling as if even her vocal cords are sore. Perhaps they are; she remembers constantly moaning.

“I checked in,” he informs her. “Told 'em a few more hours.”

She wants to nod, but she settles for blinking her acknowledgment instead.

“Is there,” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Is there anything I can do?”

Yes. There is plenty he can do. He can leave her alone. He can never look at her again. He can get her out of this disgusting room and burn everything in it. And then burn the jet.

“Clothes,” she rumbles instead. She refuses to remain naked for several more hours and then be found in such a state by everyone at HQ. So she will need to get her clothes on, somehow, but she can barely move.

He bursts over to the door where her pile still resides, grabbing it up with both hands and eagerly holding it out to her with the energy of a man desperately trying to make things right.

“Help,” she guides him. She does not want to have say it aloud, but there is no way she can put that uniform on without him performing every aspect of the work.

His face is stricken for a moment, obviously understanding what she means. “Uh,” he says, glancing down at her clothes. “Bra first?” he suggests with an attempt at decorum.

“Skip,” she says. She cannot possibly stand that constriction right now, and she certainly does not want to explain to him how to put a bra on a woman lying down. “Help me sit up.”

He moves close, trying to help her without touching her at all, until she glares him into getting over it. He does all of the work, but her body still shrieks at the shock of movement, at the heat of his hands on her skin. He moves her to sitting and brings her feet down to the floor.

Her feet are probably the only thing unhurt from all of this, she realizes sadly. The cool metal does feel nice. “Kit.”

He looks confused, but Bucky hands over the first aid kit all the same.

She places the kit next to her on the bed. She will have to prepare a pad to put in her boxer briefs, find a way to get the boxers all the way down to her feet, and then pull them all the way back up and actually shift her weight into them. With Bucky there, it will go much more quickly, but she is gripped with the decision that she must not let him see her do this, that she wants to spare him the knowledge of this injury.

“I can do this,” she blurts out, dropping her eyes when he tries to read them. “Come back in ten,” she orders, and he is so ridden with guilt and discomfort and possibly disgust that he takes the opportunity to flee. She tears open the largest looking pad from the first aid kit and smooths it into the gusset of her boxer briefs easily enough, fitting the underwear into the pants of her uniform, but then she has to bend over to string her legs in, and her vision goes dark gray. When it returns to only slightly blotchy, she pulls the ensemble up to her knees, and then with a small whimper, she makes her legs take her weight as she situates herself. When she takes her seat again, she is far more aware of how swollen and puffy her vulva is, and now she cannot ignore it.

She is thankful for Stark's latest update to make the uniform fabric more breathable, and she is able to force the lower section up around her hips. But then it is time to fit her arms inside, and she cannot find a way of forcing her arms behind her shoulders to get into the sleeves without fully falling over.

Bucky knocks on the door before poking his head back in. He looks nervous. “Ya doin' okay?”

“Almost,” she replies. It is almost true.

“Want some help there?”

She sighs, but that is enough in response, because Bucky moves forward.

“I'm sorry,” he says before he starts, and he flinches when she does, but he keeps going, stringing in one arm and then the next. Her vision goes black, and when it comes back, he is staring at her and saying her name urgently.

“Fine,” she reports. “I am fine.” She bows her head and notes that he has left her zipper undone. Possibly too intimate, even for two people who have spent more time in bed together than many people in serious romantic entanglements. She fumbles the zipper tab slightly, but she manages to pull it all the way up to her neck, far past where she normally likes to have it if she is not about to be in an altercation, but she is feeling uncomfortable in her own skin and wants to be covered.

“Wanna have some water?” Bucky offers.

“Cockpit.” She extends her hands to him, and he takes them and pulls her to standing. The head-rush is horrible, and she knows she should have taken the water, but she really needs to just get underway.

He hovers as she tips over to the cockpit, barely moving her feet as she takes tiny little steps in the hope of not hurting herself even worse. She fails. Each movement feels like she is rubbing shards of glass in open wounds, but she refuses to be laid up in that repulsive bunk and carried out in a stretcher, and that means getting used to moving around, and sitting in the co-pilot's chair; Bucky can fly today.

He buckles her into the harness without her even asking, and it makes her feel like a child in need of handling, but she also does need the help, so she does not protest. He takes off far more smoothly than he ever has before, and it is for her benefit, but she finds that she cannot thank him for it.

The journey passes in complete silence. She tries to doze off, but any jolt of wind against the jet razes her back to waking. She tries to drink water, but her arms are too sore to hold up the bottle, and her neck is too sore to tilt back, and her tongue is so tired of any motion at all, and her gut feels like there are a dozen knives twisting in it, so that even though the water feels nice, it is simply not worth the ordeal.

Barnes radios again to approve the landing, and then they are back at HQ, and she is not at all prepared for what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to warn you all that I will be going on a short hiatus for this fic so that I can focus on WinterWidow Week (yes, I actually do ship them sometimes, lol) and Femslash February. I will be back to working on this in March! If you fear this is not true, you can assure yourself by looking at my posting history - I'm not going anywhere :)
> 
> In the interim, give lots of love to f/f writers! We are few, and February is the month to celebrate love between ladies


	4. After: Looking At The Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to assess the damage and face Maria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! I am so happy to return to this fic, and I spent most of the day working on it. Hope you enjoy, and that you had a great February!
> 
> Chapter title from the poem "Nothing Twice" by Wisława Szymborska (trans. Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh), which still has nothing to do with this fic except that I like it a lot.

Maria has always prided herself in being a paragon of professionalism.

She does not deserve that title today.

She is ready to twitch out of her skin, even if she stands as still as always. She oversees three ongoing ops, but she is forced to set aside the latest intelligence reports on the Yemeni conflict when her mind refuses to retain the information. She pretends to work, but she simply worries. She goes over the preliminary reports filed by Romanova and Barnes, the data they collected at the labs before they were compromised. She reviews every minute of footage from Department X's experiments, the analyses of their scientists, the expectations of the two SHIELD neuroscientists who have been read in. Things do not bode well for her agents.

Her concern is not professional.

Ten hours after their last communication, she excuses herself to the indoor range and works her way through ten magazines. After the third time a perfect circle falls from her paper target, the junior agents clear out and give her the range to herself. The uniform she wears at work wicks away all the sweat, and she returns to command with a head only minimally cleared.

Twenty hours after their last communication, she attempts to sleep on the firmly stuffed sofa she keeps in her office. She forces herself to be unconscious for almost two hours before moving back to the command center with an urn of coffee and a cup of white table sugar to pour into the coffee at regular intervals.

Thirty hours after their last communication, she decides she is allowed to demonstrate concern. She rechecks the SHIELD expectations for possible timeline. The neuroscientists have predicted twelve hours for the encounter, with an upper limit at twenty hours. If the drug remained in their system for the upper limit, then it is entirely reasonable for her agents to be resting from the ordeal. Even ten hours of rest. Agent Barnes is unlikely to sleep for that stretch of time, normally forced by his increased metabolism to rise and find nutrients, but it is possible his state of physical exhaustion will override such concerns. Agent Romanova only sleeps more than seven hours after the wraps of extensive ops. It is entirely possible that they are asleep. That they will contact base soon.

At hour thirty-two, she checks the comms and runs a diagnostic on the HQ side of things. All clear. She gets another coffee.

At hour thirty-five, she asks for their two highest ranked doctors to prepare the Med Bay and to stay on call until their patients arrive, one of whom Romanova has shown some passive respect for in the past. Two neuroscientists, two doctors, two other SHIELD directors. Herself, and two agents. That is the entire list of people who will know of this, unless Barnes or Romanova decide to share it with others. They will both be advised to speak to Psych, but Fury has already agreed to make Psych optional instead of mandatory, at her request.

It is the least she can do. Her hands are tied. Her partner is -

Her agents have been compromised, based on bad intel she frankly should have recognized beforehand, and their physical and mental states are current unknowns. This will come out in the AARs, which will be saved hard-copy only, and then they will move on like the professionals they are.

That is all.

At hour thirty-six, she sends out a jet to their last known location. She splays her hands across the panels in front of her so that she cannot tap her fingers.

At hour thirty-seven, the crackle of the comms coming alive sends her spine crackling straight. Agent Barnes fumbles with the pertinent information, but he is capable of walking to the cockpit and communicating with her, and that is more than can be said for Agent Romanova. She will have to be taken to Medical as soon as they land. For a second she wants to scream.

Then she signs off, and it is time to hurry up and wait some more.

She arrives at the landing pad exactly ten seconds before Barnes sets down the jet. And she waits.

And she waits.

She is about to storm onto the quinjet herself when Agent Barnes appears. She forces herself to stay within the range of a brisk walk when she meets him halfway, stopping him short. “Agent Barnes, condition.”

“'m alright,” he grumbles, and he will not keep his eyes on hers.

Maria grants him a mere scan to ascertain the relative truth of that report; she has been informed to expect rapidly recovering injuries. “And Agent Romanova?” she persists.

He pauses.

She grits her teeth and _does not punch him in the throat_.

“She told me to go on ahead,” he says finally, awkwardly shifting his weight from right foot to left.

“Very well. I will meet her on board. Report to Medical immediately.” She stalks past him without waiting to see if he will obey her orders. He is not her priority.

She allows her feet to stomp onto the ramp to warn of her arrival. She waits, tense as a trap. Nothing happens. She bites back a huff and pads forward to the bunkroom. The horrid stench of sex overwhelms her, but she refuses to stumble back.

The floor is littered with plastic water bottles, the wrappers of consumed meal replacement bars, and – Maria winces – an emptied container marked for petroleum jelly. The edge of a cheap white wrapper for a menstrual pad peeks out from under the bunk, and her blood runs cold. Before she can think it through, she snatches up the wrapper and tucks into her pocket. She will dispose of it herself.

She can barely look at the bunk. Mussed into chaos, pillows thrown off the edge, rudimentary sheets ripped off the corners and soaked through with sweat and … other fluids. Maria turns her back on the whole spectacle. They will have to deal with janitorial concerns soon enough, but that is not her priority either.

She moves to the cockpit, pretending that she is not becoming desperate.

A strand of red hair peeks out from the edge of the copilot chair. But she cannot relax, not yet. Maria takes a wide arc, stepping clearly into Natasha's sight but giving her plenty of space. Something fragile in her chest cracks.

She has always known what horrid things lay in Natasha's past; it was part of the initial, highly invasive background check that Natasha cooperated with to become an agent of SHIELD. The torture, the bed training, the honeypot ops, it was all in her file.

It had not taken long to understand how that background affected Natasha's ability to fully engage in an intimate relationship. Not the sex, that was easy for her, but the _intimacy_ of it all, the honesty, the vulnerability, it was all new to her. “Intimate relations,” they call it in this business. But Maria knows her agents have not engaged in “intimate relations;” she has seen the footage and knows that once the Empulcoitus kicked in, the victims become mindless, desperate, terrifyingly compliant to anything their partner desired.

There is simply no way Natasha can get through this without facing quite a few demons that would have been better left dead and buried.

_Natasha_ looks like she has been buried and then dug back up, face gray, lips like ash. No color at all. No life, Maria thinks, and she chokes on it, it cannot be, Barnes said she was alive, he _said_ -

Natasha blinks her eyes, and every speck of breath in her lungs rushes out.

There is almost a spark there, a flicker of rage, but Maria locks her knees and does not allow herself to flinch. “Do you need assistance, Agent?” Her voice does not break, but she knows Natasha can see right through her. But Natasha refuses to turn her head to face her.

Then she realizes that Natasha cannot turn her head, that the inch of skin exposed over her collar is vivid red. She is seized with the sudden desire to track down Barnes and pummel him into the ground.

But that is not fair. Barnes was drugged, just as Natasha was, and though she does not care to think of it, she is sure Barnes was in similar shape ten hours ago. She takes a deep breath and holds it for several seconds. Professionalism. They are professionals. She is Agent Hill, and Natasha is Agent Romanova, and that is who they will be until Nat has been cleared by Medical.

Natasha does not answer, but Maria refuses to repeat herself. She keeps her gaze away from Natasha's, fixing her eyes on how high Natasha has set her zipper. She always says the height makes it hard for her to breathe.

After a minute passes, Natasha opens her mouth – lips too full, the edges bitten to pieces, inflamed – and announces to the room, “The deck must be cleared.” Her voice is brittle, a touch too high, forced through clenched teeth.

“Understood.” She has done her best to keep this quiet, but anyone would be suspicious upon seeing Natasha in this state. No matter the conclusion a spectator reached, it would not be favorable to Natasha's reputation. And she does care a great deal about her reputation. “I will see to this task and then escort you to Medical.”

Natasha hesitates, and Maria fears she has read her wrong, the strange tension in her limbs belying something else, something she does not understand. “Agreed.”

Maria swallows down her fears, turns tightly on her heel, and exits the jet without glancing back. It is a simple thing to order away the flight staff, though they give her odd looks. She sends a message to Medical to expect them shortly, and then it is time to wait at the elevator. She has grown a passionate loathing for waiting.

After an eternity, Natasha's form emerges. Each step is agony for her, Maria can read that in the slow, careful way she holds her body, in her refusal to swing her arms, in her wide stance like her own torso has grown too heavy. She has all the dedication of a principal ballerina, but anyone could see there is no grace to her movements. It is better no one is here to see this.

When she is close enough, Maria calls for the elevator, timing it well enough that Natasha does not have to lose her momentum a second earlier than necessary. Once they begin the slow descent to the Medical level, she is not surprised that Natasha refuses to lean against the walls. She always insists on standing tall; it is one of the reasons Maria loves her.

She loves her, and she allowed this to happen, failed to protect her, let her be beaten and battered and bitten – Natasha does not like marks, does not like to be claimed in this way, does not allow Maria to kiss too long on any one patch of skin, and now she has been brutalized and marked by a man who can just walk away!

Maria lets out a sound. An angry, indignant sort of thing. And then she winces. Natasha has heard it, must misread it, must hold it against her. One moment of her weakness, and it may be enough to threaten Natasha's trust in her.

A quick glance confirms it. Natasha is shutting down, resorting to the cold and forbidding robot so many believe her to be. When they finally reach the Medical level, Dr Reyes is waiting. Maria has chosen Dr Reyes because of her expertise and discretion, and also because there must be something about Reyes that Natasha appreciates, because she never playacts around her. Natasha takes a few steps forward, and Maria can breathe again; at least this choice has not missed the mark.

Dr Reyes eases an arm around Natasha's, and Maria burns with jealousy; she wants to be the one to touch Natasha, to be the one whose help Natasha accepts, but she isn't. Cel is.

She shakes her mind away from such pettiness and moves to the few plastic chairs against one wall. Maria takes her seat and settles in to wait.

Again.

*

Natasha somehow manages to make it all the way to Medical without passing out, but she is overwhelmingly relieved that Maria has the authority to clear the flight deck and their route to Medical. Maria even has the good grace to not try and join her in the exam room. She does not need any surveillance right now.

She is also grateful that Dr Reyes is waiting for her, and she knows it must have been Maria's doing. Reyes is competent, discreet, and refuses to accept Natasha's insistence that she is perfectly fine without making Natasha feel weak for needing any assistance.

Natasha inches to the exam table, but Reyes raises a hand before she can sit down. “Wait. It will be easier to remove your uniform now.”

Natasha manages an aborted nod. She used too much of her reserve of will power just to make it to this room. Now that the door has closed, she can barely stay standing. She lifts her hands to her throat and tries to take hold of the zipper. Her fingers feel thick and tingle slightly at the tips. Lack of food? Hypersensitivity? Fatigue?

Reyes waits for a few seconds. “May I?”

It does not escape her attention that most doctors, including Reyes, would have said such a thing while already moving to follow through. But Reyes waits for her response.

“Yes,” she croaks out.

Reyes unzips her uniform fully, down past her hips. She has to peel the sleeves off her arms when it becomes clear Natasha cannot move her arms out on her own. They hang there, dead weight. If Reyes finds it odd that Natasha is not wearing a bra, she says nothing. “I'll get this past your waist, then you can have a seat and we'll get an IV going. Fluids and pain relief to start.”

Natasha does not sit so much as she falls onto the exam table. Reyes has to steady her, guides her to laying down, insert a port into the back of her hand so she can open up the IV line. Relief floods through her immediately. She blinks slowly. “What...?”

“Fentanyl,” Reyes supplies. “And some broad-spectrum antibiotics, just to cover the bases. And fluids, electrolytes, we have to keep your strength up. How much trouble was it to get these pants on?”

“Lots,” she manages to say, tongue feeling heavy.

“Brace yourself” is the only warning she gets before it feels dully like her intestines are being pulled of her abdomen. The Fentanyl takes all of the sharp edges away, leaving her with a roaring ache, but Reyes finishes tearing her uniform away from her feet, and it becomes easier to breathe again.

Her boxer briefs are left where they are while Reyes calmly cleans all the skin she can see, using something warm and soft. Natasha floats, in pain that is no longer sharp. When Reyes is done cleaning up blood and come and sweat and petroleum jelly, she does her best to disinfect the minor open cuts and abrasions. It stings like a motherfucker, and Natasha is thankful for the Fentanyl.

Reyes the boxer briefs once more, considering.

“Just get 'em off.”

She nods and takes scissors to them. There is some pain when she has to take them out from under her, and Natasha's breath hisses away through her teeth, but then she can lay down again, and the drugs dull the rest. She hears the rustling rip of removing the pad from the cloth, and the soft thud as both are tossed into the trash.

Reyes whistles, and Natasha wants to bristle at the reaction, but she is tired, and still in pain, and she understands Reyes's judgment is clinical, not personal.

It still makes her feel vulnerable, to be seen like this. But Reyes cannot help her without seeing her. And she does need the help. Ideally from someone she is not close to.

“Do you know how long you were active?”

She tries to calculate, but it is not easy to know. “Assume twenty.”

Reyes blinks. “How's the pain? I can adjust the drip, if you would like.”

No. She wants to stay awake for this. For as long as she can. The pain is the only thing keeping her conscious, and she needs as much clinical knowledge about her condition as possible. “Bearable. Thank you.”

Reyes hums in response, then settles herself in for her work. She informs Nat of everything she notices, explains how to handle all of the different issues, and writes notes on a clipboard.

Nothing she says shocks Natasha. Some concerning the fissures inside her vagina, the tears along her labia. Her urethral opening is swollen practically shut, so Reyes advises her to expect pain while urinating for at least a week. Her clitoris is overstimulated and swollen, and from all this, Reyes tells her to abstain from sex for a few weeks but to allow pain to be her primary guide. Natasha does not explain that sex will not be a concern for her. Sex is the last thing she wants to have, and she refuses to think about how Maria … She refuses to think about Maria.

Her entire pelvis is fiery-red, grossly swollen, and if she allows herself a single second to think about it, the pain threatens to swallow her whole. Her entire left side from shoulder to ankle where she slept on the mattress is covered in what amounts to diaper rash, and Reyes says they can treat it as such with petroleum jelly. Natasha grimaces, and Reyes amends the suggestion to other creams. Natasha has a myriad of scratches and some more major abrasions along her back and over her knees. Bruises, most in the form of fingertips or bitemarks, layer over themselves all across her body, a vivid illustration of the way Bucky had moved her body in his desperation. The bruises are most obviously concentrated on her right side, to align with Bucky's metal arm. Reyes recommends icing the deeper bruises over the next day, but she admits it will only offer relief, not expedite healing.

Reyes prods at a particularly nasty bruise on her side, and with further examination realizes that Natasha has at least fractured a few ribs, and she takes her for X-rays. Two ribs are fully broken, low near her waist where it could be a danger to her lower organs, but there are no danger signs of internal bleeding or punctured organs. Reyes explains the best timeline for healing, that she should wear only loose clothing for several weeks, and that she should take care to practice deep breathing.

When they move over to a standard observation room, Reyes shifts her onto a more stable hospital bed, then applies ointments to the deeper abrasions, to most of the chafing from her waist down to almost her knees, to the diaper rash along her left side. Reyes then informs her she is increasing the dosage of pain killers in her IV. Now that the examination is over, she feels ready to sleep for another ten or twenty hours. Once Natasha is properly positioned and fully situated, Reyes drapes a soft sheet over her body and leaves her to her sleep.


	5. After: We Arrive Here Improvised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title still Szymborska, lol

Bucky is ushered into an examination room by a no-nonsense doctor with cold hands. He strips down for a basic physical, answers her questions with as little information as possible, and then offers his right arm as she takes tiny vial after vial of his blood.

“There are a couple of research scientists read in on recent events that will be conducting a series of tests on these fluids to ascertain if your version of the super serum had any effects on the Pseudophilias-Empulcoitus.”

Why would they even fucking bother? His serum didn't do anything. It only made it worse. They thought it would be twelve hours, and he definitely went for longer. Close to twenty, from what he could tell. He made it worse.

_Natasha, lying limp, his chafed cock pumping into her..._

He coughs and the doc looks almost concerned but he waves her out of his face. He lets her take all that blood, and then he puts his tac jacket back on and leaves. He clears Medical after little more than an hour. Like everything's back to normal. But it's not.

Bucky goes to the tiny quarters SHIELD offered him when he joined up, rips off the uniform he never wants to see again, and then he showers until his skin feels raw. He sits on the gritty floor of his shower stall and untangles his hair with the wide-tooth comb he keeps in the shower caddy. Then he switches to shaving off the hideous growth at his jaw and neck, far past an attractive stubble. 

When he finally leaves his bathroom, he looks almost presentable in fresh clothes. Now all he can do is check on Nat. He, he really hurt her. He clears his throat and scratches at the back of his neck as he makes his way down the hall. When he enters Medical again, he immediately sees Hill, tense in a plastic chair. He almost turns back. He can't face her, the lover of the woman he –

But he has to know. He has to hear if Natasha is okay. How badly he hurt her. He knows he hurt her, covered in bruises, had to help her get dressed, had to help her stand up. He has to know the rest. So he forces himself forward.

Hill does not look up when he stops in front of her. He has to clear his throat loudly – easy enough to do when he feels as awkward as he does. There's an itch slowly crawling up his spine that he can't shake. “Director Hill.” She does not startle, but he wants to stumble back at the fury in her eyes. And then a smooth wave overcomes her entire face, like she's wiped her emotions clean, and there's no anger left there. None that he can see, anyway.

“Agent Barnes.” She sounds tired. She must not have slept at all while they were … gone. “You've been cleared?”

“Yes, sir. Clean bill of health, thanks to the serum.” The fucking serum. Should have stopped the drug, should have saved them from this, but it couldn't even get that right.

She nods. Is he imagining how brittle she seems?

“How is she?” He holds his lungs still, feels like he can feel his blood pumping through his body.

Hill shakes her head. “We have not heard anything yet.”

Maybe he should leave her be. That would be the fair thing, the right thing to do. That's her partner being treated right now, that's her partner he brutalized, can't he give them any fucking peace? But if he's proven anything in the last few decades, in the last few days, it is that he does not do the right thing. Fuck. “Can I, uh, wait with you?”

Her face does not flicker; he makes a note to never play poker with Hill. “You should rest.” It should sound gentle, but it doesn't. It's just cold.

His hand is shaking. He should back down. He should go to the Tower and borrow something to drink from Thor and leave this entire shitshow behind him. He should resign from SHIELD and go into hiding. He should leave. He should leave her alone. “Is that an order, sir?”

Hill doesn't answer right away, just purses her lips like he's sour. He doesn't think he'd've seen if he hadn't been watching so close. Then she sighs and looks away. “No.”

He waits to see if she's gonna say anything else, but he's not in an overly chatty mood either. So he leaves a chair in between them when he takes a seat. He can already sit comfortably. In the seven or eight hours since Natasha woke up in the jet, his dick has already healed over.

She won't heal so quickly.

_Reaching for her ribs, pushing her off and down against the bed, gripping her bruised hips tightly..._

He blinks hard, stares off at a speck on the wall across the way, and practices his deep breathing. He falters, sometimes, but his doc says to keep going anyway, so he does. It doesn't make him feel any better, but it stops him from feeling any worse or falling to his knees and crying.

When a doctor appears down the hall, he snaps up to his feet. She waves him back down to sitting, and he notices Maria never got up in the first place. She just gives a nod to the doctor, who starts her run-through.

Bruises. Abrasions. Major dehydration.

Barnes can nod along, he had similar complaints, just minor. Those things heal fast enough, it's not so bad. Get some cream, some of those fancy IV fluids, she'd be right as rain. But the doc keeps going.

Broken ribs. Vaginal fissures. Possibility of infections. Six weeks recovery, minimum.

He chokes. He _broke her ribs_. He _tore up her insides_. 

“Agent Barnes!” Hill barks at him. He startles and looks up at her, when did she stand up? “Report to your barracks immediately. Get some rest, and report to my office tomorrow, 0800.”

He coughs. “Yes, sir.” And then he gets the fuck outta there.

He scrambles back to his quarters, turns up the heat as high as the stat will let him, and takes another shower, hot enough to make his skin glow red and sting, hot enough that he can keep his lungs open and breathe, 'cause he can't handle the cold right now, he just can't. He scrubs at his skin, wants to tear it right off, wants to remove every speck of his body that hurt her 'til there's nothing left of him.

*

When Natasha wakes, she feels loopy and soft enough to be alarmed. But she is in a hospital room with decent lighting, and she's not chained down, and she feels neither pain nor the overwhelming desire to tell all her secrets. Then she recalls Dr Reyes and the Fentanyl, and she decides softer edges around all her senses is acceptable for the moment. She is not looking forward to the medication wearing off.

The dimly lit clock to her left informs her that she has slept for close to twelve hours. The empty plastic chair on her right informs her that Maria is still at the command level; if she had been able to step away from her work, she would be sleeping in that chair.

Unless she could not stand to be close to her. She had seen Maria's face on the quinjet. Had heard the furious noise she made in the elevator. She had not actually seen Maria sitting in that chair. Or sitting outside any of her rooms. She has not seen Maria since they reached Medical.

The door opens to Dr Reyes with a large white sack. “Ointments, antibiotics, acetaminophen and hydrocodone, sleep apnea monitor and incentive spirometer, and all the literature you'll need to properly utilize them all. Take the opioid as often as you need, okay? I'll want to see in you three days, and it'd be better for your healing if I just came to you, but if you don't feel comfortable with my visiting, you could come in for check-ups. Either way, call me anytime you need anything, especially if you have trouble breathing or you develop any new rashes.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She does not want to be laid up in Medical for a minute longer than necessary. Besides, SHIELD will have to reopen this section eventually, and there's nothing more Reyes can do for her. Reyes has a life to get back to.

Dr Reyes lays a set of scrubs at the foot of her bed and moves to her IV stand, adjusting something where she cannot see. “The director left a few hours ago. She asked to be informed when you woke.”

Of course she had. Nat does not know how to sigh without moving a single muscle in her body, so she refrains. “And have you?”

“Not yet. And I will not if that is your request,” Dr Reyes informs her, and Nat realizes she believes her, “But I would advise you to remember that she is on your side. We all are.”

Natasha cannot decide if she wants to laugh or smother herself with her flimsy SHIELD pillow. “Is this your attempt at being a motivational speaker? Because I find there is room for improvement.”

Dr Reyes is not impressed with her attempt at humor. She simply stares.

But Natasha does not need time to consider her options. “Do not notify Director Hill.”

“Understood. Would you like assistance getting dressed?” Reyes offers with a blank affect, as if she does not mind either answer.

She does not want assistance, but she needs it. SHIELD was very clear about the necessity of working as a unit, as a team. Of reporting in when help would be beneficial. The first time she took a bullet that her handler deemed unnecessary, she was submitted to SHIELD counseling about her “self destructive tendencies” and “trust issues.” They had not managed to find a counselor perceptive enough to withstand her pretenses, and after a month of meetings, she had been cleared for active duty. It took another year before she finally understood what SHIELD had meant to convey – to seek help is not a weakness.

It is easiest to forget this when she feels weak.

She accepts Reyes's help. She directs attention to her hair first, and Reyes agrees to force a comb through the strands over and over until they actually resemble hair again instead of a rat's nest. She even French braids it after. Then Reyes fits the scrubs over her head and threads her limbs through. She does her best to be gentle, and Nat grits her teeth as best she can. The scrubs feel like sandpaper on her skin, but she cannot walk through the halls of SHIELD headquarters in a linen sheet that does not feel any better. She is not altogether sure she can walk, either. But she can't use a wheelchair like this either, and it would invite questions she does not want to answer. So she will bite her tongue and hold her head high, and she will get through this just as she has gotten through everything else in her life.

Officially, she resides in the Tower with the rest of the Avengers, and she does spend two or three nights a week sleeping there, but only Clint knows she spends the rest of her time at Maria's apartment. Neither is an acceptable option right now, but she maintains a tiny room here at HQ to provide plausible deniability if anyone asks about her whereabouts. She can stay there, maybe convince Dr Reyes to bring some groceries.

She thanks Dr Reyes once more before leaving the medbay with her supplies, limping along to her quarters. She is lucky enough to avoid seeing any other agents in the hallways, because there is simply no way she could cover well enough, looking as she does. She gingerly lies down in her matchbox of a mattress with her paper sack of supplies.

Nat wants a shower desperately. She feels physically coated in fluids and dried sweat and grime, and emotionally … It's not that she feels raped, exactly. But she does feel … violated. And she is very literally bruised and broken. So there is a distinct discomfort there, an unease with her own body that she has not felt in many years. She refuses to look down at her body as she eases out of her borrowed scrubs.

She will try to bathe tomorrow. For now, she just needs to sleep, so she scoops through the sack to find the opioid and takes one. Then she remembers Reyes's advice and swallows another. Nat leaves the rest on her tiny, regulation entry-table, and lays down as gently as she can manage with her arms as exhausted as they are.

She drifts to sleep within seconds.

*

It is easier now, to focus on the task at hand. The situation in Cambodia is worsening, but Coulson is on top of it. Stark is causing trouble again, but he just does it for attention.

Maria had stayed in Natasha's room and kept watch over her until her phone was buzzing constantly, and then she'd had to leave. She'd had to resort to reviewing AARs from three different strike teams while analyzing their latest intel reports on Cambodia to aid Coulson while overseeing the op in Serbia while very pointedly ignoring Fury's glances. He insisted she leave the hospital room to work and then glared at her every time he saw her working. Insufferable.

But reasonable.

She'll be able to pull away soon. Another two hours, perhaps. And Cel will let her know when Natasha wakes, and nothing short of nuclear fallout will stop her from returning.

But it is only an hour later when she can responsibly excuse herself from her duties to check in on Natasha and get some much needed rest. She stops by her office to dispose of all the paperwork she has accumulated then strides to Medical.

Natasha's observation room is empty. And her chart is missing. The whole room has been reset, so she was properly discharged by Reyes. Who has clearly neglected to inform her director, almost certainly at Natasha's request.

She sighs, letting her shoulders fall for just a second before snapping back to attention and marching down to living quarters. Natasha would not have gone back to the Tower; she would not have wanted to answer any questions from her teammates. She would not have gone to a hotel to avoid any questions from strangers. And if she had planned to stay at Maria's, she would have let Reyes call. Clearly, Natasha decided on the closest safe mattress she could find.

She knocks gently on the door, but there is no response. It could mean Natasha is not there, or does not wish to see her. More likely, the silence means Natasha is asleep again, her body fighting desperately to get the rest she needs to recuperate.

So Maria swipes herself in with her ID – and this is _not_ an abuse of power, Natasha is _hurt_ and could need her – and stares at Natasha's sleeping form until she sees the sheet over her chest heave with the effort of breathing. And Maria lets herself breathe too.

There is a package on the table. Bottles of capsules, tubes of antibiotic ointment, some equipment she is not familiar with, and a fistful of papers.

Maria takes a seat in the small cushioned chair against one wall and begins to read. There are long paragraphs of medical jargon in normal text, and then bolded summaries most likely written by Reyes for Natasha's benefit. Nothing can be done for the bruises, but she will need to keep the abrasions clean. The risk for a urinary tract infection is concerning, but the broad spectrum antibiotics should inhibit that. There is a strict schedule for her pills, even the narcotics, though there is an emphatic, italicized note to use them as often as needed. Breathing can be an issue with broken ribs, and the devices Reyes included are to monitor and encourage the strength and resilience of her lungs. Natasha will be bedridden for weeks. She should not have to handle that alone.

Or here, Maria notes with some disdain. SHIELD quarters were not designed for long-term residence; they were little better than cheap hotel rooms where agents could sleep in between their missions. Natasha should have a comfortable mattress, a full kitchen already stocked with all of her favorite treats, a bathroom with a full shower where Natasha can turn around without bumping her elbows or knees or head – SHIELD should renovate these showers, they're completely unacceptable, she should make a note – and _someone there_ to take care of her. Maria sighs quietly. Natasha does not like being taken care of.

But it is possible. And Maria has to try.

On another day, she would crawl into bed with Natasha and curl up around her and sleep until sleep meant nothing, but … But if Natasha would be okay with that, she would have called Maria when she woke up. And she didn't. And Natasha cannot even manage to sleep on her side as she normally does. Maria is not sure which carries the most blame – the broken ribs, the damaged pelvis, or the layers of bites, of purple and blue bruises made from something roughly the size of Barnes's fingertips.

Natasha does not like to be marked, threw Maria off the first time she tried. She would have thrown off Barnes if she could have. He held her down. He has a hundred pounds on her, super-strength, frantic as he was …

Maria sighs. The blame does not lie with Barnes. When she heads an op, she takes the lives of her agents in her hands, and everything that happens to her agents is on her head. She carries the blame for every bruise. So Maria sits there and waits for Natasha to wake and does her best to stay awake so Natasha cannot sneak away again.

Maria is watching closely enough that she can see the moment Natasha begins to stir, the coming consciousness, the realization she is not alone.

Natasha blinks several times as her eyes focus in on Maria. “I asked that you not be notified.” She does not sound angry, only tired.

Suddenly, Maria understands how she is not at all prepared for this conversation. All she can do is hope Natasha lets her stay. “I wasn't,” she assures Natasha calmly. “I discovered you were gone when I managed to break away.” Hours after Natasha left Medical. And then she had to stay at SHIELD for several more. She should have noticed sooner. But she is here now. That has to count for something. “I wanted to be here when you woke up.”

“I did not invite you in.”

No, she did not. But Maria had to come.

She says nothing in response. She knows Natasha is feeling vulnerable, _is_ vulnerable right now. She'll be as hostile as she was the first time they worked together, after the fourth time she had angered a handler by rewriting the playbook in the middle of a mission. For the better, which just made the matter worse. All the other handlers had tried to punish Natasha for it, but that wasn't the best way to handle her. Listening was.

The silence stretches. There is only one thing to say. “Say the word, and I'm gone.” They had agreed on this years ago, when they had first started out. If Natasha says she wants anything, then she will have it. Maria will ensure it.

Of course, after they made this agreement, Natasha tested it, worried at it like a splinter. And every time, Maria followed through. Left the bed the second Natasha said, no matter what they were in the middle of doing. Went to the store to buy another kind of ice cream because the two Maria had at home were not satisfactory. And Natasha learned that she could trust this, trust her. Maria would not force herself on Natasha, not ever. If she wants Maria to leave, she will have to say so.

Her lips curl back. “I want you to leave.”

She should have been braced for the blow. But she sees the anger in Natasha's face, and she knows she deserves it. She – she can find someone. Reyes, she will expand her position to include housecalls, once or twice a day, she can look after Natasha. It will have to be enough. She cannot force Natasha to allow her to stay.

Maria nods, rises up on shaking feet, and turns to the door.

“Wait.”

She freezes. She does not breathe. She does not hope. The first time Natasha pinned her in a decidedly _not_ sexy way in bed because she had done something Natasha had not liked, she had felt this same tension, this same fear that she had ruined everything.

“Wait, no, don't,” Natasha bites out. “I want...” Maria turns slightly, just enough to put Natasha in her peripheral vision. She is still lying prone, but she seems worried. “I want you to stay. Please.”

Something in her chest loosens. “Then I'll stay,” she says simply. Giving Natasha what she wants is always simple. All she has to do is say the word.


	6. The Sorry Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky faces an unpleasant debrief.

Maria displays a calm that would trick most, but Natasha can see the nervous energy that rolls off of her. “Do you have any pressing needs? Pain medication? I saw some narcotics on the end-table.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She gathers a glass of water and opens the pill bottle for her. “One or two?”

“Two,” Natasha decides easily. Her earlier dose wore off while she slept, and she manages to reach out an arm to take the pills first, then the water. Swallowing the medicine is difficult, especially while lying down, but she manages it without choking.

“You need your antibiotics now, yes?” Maria quickly checks the label of another bottle and deposits two more pills into her hand.

The thought of swallowing liquid while lying prone is distasteful. She really should sit up, but for the moment she is still nude. “Would you get me a shirt?” she asks tentatively. She does not like that she has to ask for help. She does not like that she will need help for weeks.

Maria nods then flits over to the small set of drawers kept in her quarters. When she passes over a soft, regulation SHIELD tee that originally belonged to her, it is probably the first shirt she could find, but Natasha hopes it means something.

She has to stretch the shirt out and wrestle it into place, incapable of performing the task quickly enough that Maria cannot see any marks, and then she has to lay back down because her arms are exhausted and her head is swimming. “Barnes knows,” she admits to the ceiling. “About us. He guessed.”

“I am not surprised.” And it is true that Maria does not sound surprised. But she does sound sad.

“We agreed to keep it quiet.” Another betrayal she has committed. Natasha cannot hold herself to her word.

“We agreed for my sake,” Maria points out, a little too quickly to be calm. “I am retracting my concern. It is no longer a priority.”

Natasha blinks. She glances over at Maria, who is sitting in her only chair, looking less than pristine. Knowing Maria, she has not slept in days.

Natasha herself feels like she hasn't slept in days, even though she just woke again. The drugs will kick in soon, dull the fire licking at her skin. “Stay,” she whispers.

“I will.”

There's a strange, sparking determination behind it, like it's not just about tonight; she really hopes Maria doesn't just mean tonight. She could imagine holing up in Maria's, lounging out … but she shouldn't.

“You sit in that chair all night, and you'll feel awful tomorrow,” she warns her before biting back a yawn.

“I've survived worse.”

They both have. Only thing Nat knows how to do is survive.

“You can … come share the bed. If you want.” If she could move, she would turn away to hide her face, but it's not worth the effort. She simply closes her eyes and waits.

She is asleep before she knows Maria's decision.

When she wakes again, there is bright light streaming through the small window of her quarters and a weight across her stomach that would be more familiar curled at her waist. She prefers to sleep on her side, and then Maria can slip up behind her.

She would like to lay in this warmth and closeness, but unfortunately the hydrocodone has worn off again, and she'd like to scrape off all of her skin with sandpaper so she doesn't have to feel this way. There's ointment, she knows, but she does not have the range of motion or energy necessary to apply it. It will just have to wait.

The chair has Maria's jacket draped across the seat and her boots tucked underneath. Maria herself is awake, judging by the slim, controlled drift of her thumb. It sends a sharp pain along a large bruise, but it is an inch or two lower than her broken ribs, so Natasha doesn't mind. Then she realizes Maria must have seen her medical file, which sours it somewhat. She would have preferred keeping the sordid details secret from her, but that was probably not possible. Injuries in the field could not be hidden from handlers, or deputy directors.

If only she had procured the broken ribs from AIM idiots, or a multidimensional monster, or just some dumb kids who got the drop on her. That would be less mortifying than this.

“Come back to mine?” Maria offers quietly, eyes hot on her face.

“You don't want me there,” Natasha rebuts reflexively.

Maria huffs her frustration, but her hand stays gentle. “But what do _you_ want?”

She wants to be in Maria's apartment. She wants to take her favorite chair in Maria's living room and drape herself in Maria's softest fuzzy blanket and ruin Maria's recommended lists on Netflix and have Maria bend close to kiss her hello every night when she comes home so late from working so hard. They haven't moved in together in order to keep their relationship a secret, but if Maria truly does not care … “I could want that,” she says hesitantly, trying to keep an eye on Maria's reaction. “It would be easier to get food delivered there, I suppose.”

Maria shuffles closer. “And my bed is more comfortable.”

“And when I get back on my feet, I'd have space to move around,” she says with a critical look around her quarters.

“And I want you there.” Maria leans close and kisses her temple.

Natasha does not understand how Maria can stand to look at her, let alone touch her, when Maria had seemed so disgusted and angry with her in the elevator to Medical. But she has never quite been able to understand why Maria seems to love her, and if Maria has decided to ignore what she did, or at least stay by her side while her body heals, then she will take what she can get.

“Alright. But … you do not have to … I can take care of myself,” she insists quietly, neglecting the unimportant detail that she can barely move.

“Believe me, I know,” Maria says, and it sounds like she is smiling, but that cannot be right. “But I'd like to help. Will you let me?”

She makes a noncommittal noise and turns her face away to hide her cautious smile.

*

Bucky pokes his head into Hill's office, but she isn't there. He checks the clock, and it turns out in his nerves that he's arrived ten minutes early. So he takes a seat and tries not to worry about being terminated. Either meaning.

When Hill arrives exactly on time, he stands to attention for half a second before she waves him back down. “How are you feeling, Agent?” Her voice sounds as brisk as ever.

He clears his throat awkwardly and confesses, “Better.” Then he adds, “Thank you,” but before he can ask about Natasha, Director Hill is shuffling papers and opening up a laptop.

“This debrief is concerned with the events that took place during and after the mission between September 13 and September 15, 2012. This is highly sensitive information, and I understand it may be difficult to discuss. This debrief will be recorded, transcribed, and then saved hard-copy only. Neither the recording nor the transcription is being saved to cloud storage. The printed transcription will be available only to Director Fury and myself as Deputy Director and the handler on point,” Hill rattles it all off like she doesn't even hafta think about it, pressing buttons on her laptop, probably to record what he's gonna say. “Though you are granted access to read and verify. At the end of this debrief, I will invite one of the two neuroscientists read in on these events to conduct his own interview concerning the biomedical aspects to better inform his research into the pheromone known as Pseudophilias-Empulcoitus, as it is SHIELD's express aim to prevent this situation from occurring again. I will not be present for that discussion, as it would violate prevailing medical privacy laws, but if there is any medical information you would like to add to the official record, you may do so. Before we begin,” she finally looks him dead in the eyes, “Do you have any questions about the parameters of this debrief and subsequent interview?”

“No, sir.” He doesn't entirely believe her about the privacy – they both heard all about Natasha and doesn't she deserve any privacy? - _soft skin bruising under his hands, lips pursing as she begs for more_ – but he doesn't see any point in bringing … any of that up, if he can help it.

“From the beginning then, Agent, if you would.”

He straightens up a bit. “Mission brief was to put down the jet a mile out from the suspected Hydra compound at 0620 on September 13. Agent Romanova and I arrived at the base roughtly ten minutes later after my preliminary scout showed no activity. We breached the defenses as planned and met no resistance.” Nat had said something then, she had had suspicions, he shoulda listened to her. “Agent Romanova noted the lack of personnel was suspect.”

Hill nods; she had been on the comms, she heard it too. They had all ignored it. Must be eating her up, he realizes.

“We swept the base, got the files of the computer banks, performed a general search of the subterranean laboratory. There was a door on the far side of the lab near the computers where Agent Romanova stood, like a walk-in freezer, and I opened it. There was a loud hiss as the gas released. I don't know if the door triggered it, or if it was just a coincidence. Could've been a trap,” he admits.

“How loud was the hissing noise? A shower, an alarm clock?”

He considers and decides, “Slightly louder. Maybe 85 decibels.”

“How long did it last?”

“Seven or eight seconds.”

“Were any of your other senses involved? Sight, smell, taste?”

“The gas was white, visible for slightly longer than the hissing sound, but it dissipated after only a few seconds. It smelled ...” He breathes deeply, remembering. “Sweet. Not quite floral. Like honey, maybe. Didn't get a taste though.”

“And was there any obvious temperature difference from the room?”

Jesus, they think of everything for this shit. “A little warmer. Maybe 75, 80 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“What did you do next?”

He shrugs. “Nothing much. Shared a look, but we didn't feel affected by anything, so we kept going. Romanova finished up on the computers, I scanned the room, but it just looked like bottles of chemicals like we'd seen all over the lab, so I didn't think anything of it and set the explosives. When we were clear, I blew the charges. Didn't see anyone the entire time, or any signs someone had been there recently. Went back to the jet and contacted SHIELD about the gas. We sent over the files we'd gotten and waited for you guys to find out what it was. Got the results back from base around 0800.” Then it had all gone to shit.

“Had you experienced any symptoms from the gas by that point?”

“None.”

“SHIELD has records that your next communication with base was at 2110 on September 14, does this corroborate with what you recall?”

“Yes, sir. We arrived back on base at 0200 and reported to Medical immediately.” At least he reported immediately. Natasha couldn't move on her own, woulda needed help. Had she been carried to Medical? Had people seen? Did people know what he _did_ to her?

Hill nods. “Are there any notes concerning the mission that you believe would be pertinent to add at this time, Agent Barnes?”

“No, sir.”

“And are there any forms that you would like access to at this time?”

He stares. “Like what?”

“Form 65, Form 89a, Form 221,” she lists, like those numbers mean anything to him.

“What are those?”

“They pertain to various interpersonal configurations with SHIELD. You could fill out a 65, for example, if there are any field agents you would like to deprioritize as a possible teammate in the future. Form 89a can be used for any complaints about standard work duties, especially regarding poor handling of assets during ops.”

“And 221?”

“Breach of Conduct of a Deputy Director. If you would like any of these forms, they can be filed in the Records office. Agent Coulson can oversee any that you file with the aid of Director Fury.”

She's telling him to report her if he's pissed. Letting him know she won't bury it before anyone else can see. Hill hasn't breached any conduct, far as he's concerned. But at least he can expect a 65 against him coming soon, if he's not fired or grounded outright. Maybe they'll claim he's too Soldier to be trusted now.

He shakes his head.

Hill presses some more things on her laptop and closes it. “This transcript will be used as a substitute to your standard After Action Report. The recording has been stopped, and any note-taking from this point is for the scientist's sake. Both scientists have been reminded to keep subjects anonymous and notes secure and confidential.” She stands, taking the laptop with her. “Thank you for your time, Agent Barnes.”

She marches out and a skinny, old scientist takes her spot behind her desk. He has a leather-bound notebook and a nice pen.

“When did symptoms begin to present?”

Okay, so no introduction then. Scientist types could be weird. “Around an hour and a half after exposure. Close to 0830.”

“Describe the onset.”

“I noticed my heart rate was up. I was starting to sweat, and the room felt suddenly real warm. I became,” _hard as a fucking rock_ , “… aroused.”

“Did you initiate intercourse at this time?”

“What, no!” Jesus, lead a guy up to it next time! Buck scrubs at his face. “I ignored it.”

“Even knowing that the pheromone cannot be overcome by force of mind?” The scientist actually looks at him then, and he feels suddenly childish.

“Well, it could for thirty minutes,” he argues. “But it got to be a lot, so I stood up. Romanova looked like she'd been feeling warm too. Her eyes were dilated. Mine probably were too. Once we started touching though, it was hard to stop.”

“Did you attempt to at any point?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he insists. He had tried, someone had to know that he had _tried_. “She said wait, and I stopped. It hurt, but I did it.”

“How did it hurt?”

_My dick felt like it was crying_ is the real answer, but he's not gonna say that to someone with a medical degree. He's gotta sound posh. Like Tony when he's talking around someone. “I knew that sexual activities would abate the heat and the pressure. My body understood how to find relief, but I still maintained … some mental faculties.”

“What sort of faculties?”

“I knew it wasn't real. I had to do it, once we started I couldn't stop, but I still knew that it was just the drug. We had discussed … certain particulars, and I was able to keep to that.”

“What sort of sexual activities did you participate in?”

Bucky stares at the weasel-looking guy in disgust even as he flushes, _Natasha's leg tucked over his elbow as he slides into her, Natasha's hot mouth on his dick_. “I'm not answering that.” No fucking way. None of his fucking business.

“Any information you can offer could prove vital -”

He bristles. Buncha bullshit. “We had sex, doc, you do the math.” _Or watch a fucking porno like the rest of the losers getting off alone_ , he adds snidely. He sits and glares at the scientist for a bit. He tries to clench his metal hand into a fist, but it's still all gummed up. “Anything else?”

“Will you answer the question?”

“Nope.” He folds his arms and sits back.

“Then I think we're done here.” The doc lifts his eyebrows like that's a problem.

But it's his research, not Bucky's, so no skin off him. He just leaves. What's even the point of scientists if they're useless, that's what he wants to know.

He's a little surprised they didn't just boot him down to Psych. He guesses voluntarily talking to a doc once a week means he doesn't have to.

What he really needs to do is talk to Tony. He's the only one Bucky really trusts to work on the arm, but he's not happy with his prospects in convincing Tony to not be … well, all Tony, with the rambling and the questions and the hacking into SHIELD. But he does need his arm back in somewhat working order.

He's totally screwed.

But with the debrief over, he doesn't have any plans, and he doesn't want to stay cooped up in SHIELD forever with a bad arm, so he sighs and heads to the Tower. Jarvis tells him Tony's in the lab on a thirty hour engineering binge, so he calls for a time-out for his arm's sake. Tony pours some sorta oil on it so that the soap would work better, or some nonsense like that, but he's so happy to see Bucky he forgets to ask what happened, just talks about what he's working on. Then Bucky makes him eat something real and go to bed. Tony fights that with most people, especially Steve, but he's getting better about listening when it's Bucky.

At least he's still good for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last we see of Bucky for a while! Looking forward to our ladies healing :)


	7. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha wishes it would all just go away

By the time Natasha has been tucked into the most comfortable position of Maria's couch, with the best fuzzy blanket on her lap and her bottle of hydrocodone nearby, she wants to melt away into nothing, but Maria does not seem to agree with these priorities.

“You should eat something,” she calls sternly.

Natasha considers all that would be necessary – moving her arms, chewing, swallowing something larger than a pill, dealing with the waste later – and grimaces. She notes with some relief that the muscles in her face have regained some of their flexibility.

“Your body needs fuel.”

“My body needs rest,” she counters, pointedly ignoring how many hours she has slept out of the last forty-eight. Sleep is the only way to escape the pain.

“Pepper made double fudge brownies,” Maria informs her, in the voice she uses when she is only pretending to be nonchalant. Normally she reserves it for days when they both have the time to be decadent and lie in bed for hours.

Would she ever hear Maria use this voice for sex? Would Maria ever want her? Does she ever want to be wanted? She wants to be wrapped in a cloud, far away from anything that can touch her.

She blinks, returns to herself, and slowly looks over to the kitchen. Maria stands behind a massive wicker basket, overflowing with a blanket and covered with bottles and boxes and yes – a large container of Pepper's amazing double fudge brownies.

Maria had managed to get a note through to Pepper. She had asked her to, not expecting anything to be considered worthy of the possible injury to SHIELD security. Telling Pepper anything was as good as asking Tony Stark to break into their files again, but Maria had done it. For her sake.

“I guess I will have one,” she says, not half as casually as she would have around anyone else. She tries to shuffle up into a better position, but her arms are still too weak. If she is not careful, she will lose all of her muscle mass before she can be cleared for missions.

“And then you'll have some orange juice and kefir,” Maria tacks on as she brings over a brownie on a napkin.

Natasha glares at her even as she accepts the treat. “I am not a child.”

“If you were a child, you'd have to drink the kefir first.” She supposes that means Maria has technically agreed with her. “I'm guessing you haven't had anything in your system since the IV?”

Natasha rolls her eyes in the way she would if she were shrugging her shoulders. But it is true; food has been the lowest of her priorities. There is pain, and not pain, and the space between is occupied by thoughts of Maria.

*

But she does feel like a child. A normal child, at least, like from the movies they watch at the Tower, staying home sick from school with a worried mother fretting over her and fluffing her pillows and foisting ginger ale on her. She never had a relationship with her mother, whoever she was, and it had never bothered her. Her childhood was what it was.

It is not a role she likes to see Maria in. She does not want to imagine her partner as her mother. She does not want to see how much of a burden she is.

Because she is a burden. She can see that when her eyes are not clouded. Maria fetches her food, changes her clothes, gathers her medications and keeps her to their schedules, reminds her to use the spirometer twice a day, forces her to surrender her existing blanket for a fresh one each morning. She is not a person; she is a doll. Instead of assassinations, her function is to sit pretty waiting for assistance. In the field, she waits for no one; Barton has his eyes on her, and Maria's voice is in her ear, but she is the one to move. She remembers how she reacted in the cockpit on the quinjet, how she tried to run.

She cannot run.

She forces Maria to go back to work after taking two days off to be with her. It is a nice gesture, but Maria's work is far too important to be brushed aside for a grown woman who needs assistance walking to the bathroom, a grown woman who needs comfort each time when the pain of using a toilet brings tears to her eyes. She walks slowly, her fingertips gliding against the wall. She grits her teeth, moves some of her body weight to her arms to relieve the backs of her thighs, and tries to remember how to breathe.

When the pain threatens to overwhelm her, Natasha reminds herself of greater pain. Of waking up after it happened. Of being shackled to bedframes as a child. Of all the torture she endured at the Red Room, the flogs and the needles and the knives.

Perspective. It is an important component of undercover work.

When she finally returns to the living room, she adds _cranberry juice_ to Maria's grocery list and _probable UTI_ to her own list for concerns to discuss with Reyes. She watches police procedurals and tracks how long it takes for her to identify the culprits. It is never very long. She practices deep breathing to safeguard against pneumonia.

Reyes comes to visit around noon. She checks her ribs and her pelvis, and she administers more ointments. The beard burn and diaper rash have both dissipated significantly, but the bruising all down her side is only beginning to fade into garish green. It will be another week before the bruises disappear.

“I can return in three days to see if it is safe for you to start taking baths,” Reyes offers, “But it'll probably be a bit longer before you can start taking showers.”

“I cannot stand for long,” she admits. She grows lightheaded, and her vision goes gray.

“How's your food intake?”

She eats Pepper's brownies. She drinks orange juice with kefir. It is not enough to sustain a normal adult woman, let alone one with her muscle mass and metabolism, but she has no appetite, and trips to the bathroom are exhausting and painful. “Lacking.”

“A poor diet will prolong your recovery time,” Reyes tells her, as if she is not aware of that fact. “Is there anything in particular dissuading you from eating?”

She shrugs. She has regained much of her shoulder's range of motion, as long as she moves slowly.

“Are there particular food items you find more appetizing than others?” Reyes tries.

“Brownies.”

“Then continue to eat brownies.” Odd advice from a medical professional, she thinks. “See if you can switch it up, add some peanut butter every once in a while. Have you been getting any fluids?”

“Orange juice. Kefir.”

“Would you feel comfortable switching from kefir to more traditional smoothies? I'm concerned about the alcohol content.”

Of course. The fermentation process produced enough ethanol to interfere with her medications. She should have thought of that. Why hadn't she thought of that?

It is possible, she realizes in a start, that she has lost her ability to think perfectly well while starving. She used to be able to; in Russia, it was as easy as breathing. Natasha has grown used to having food available now. Her body has forgotten how to go without it.

She feels as though she has lost something important. A resilience.

“Agent?”

She blinks, and the world resettles. “Yes? Yes, that is acceptable. I will switch.”

“Keep the smoothies varied if you can, but don't worry about it. Remind me, do you take a multivitamin?” She nods. “Good, keep doing that.” Reyes makes a note on a small pad of paper – she has assured Natasha they are the barest of notations to maintain privacy until she can return to SHIELD-approved tech to transcribe them in confidence. “Now then, do you have any concerns for me?”

Natasha passes her own piece of paper to Reyes. After a few clarifying questions, Reyes agrees a UTI is likely. “Your antibiotics may be enough, but many home remedies are scientifically sound. They're worth a shot.”

She nods. Reyes offers some pleasantries that sound genuine and leaves after reminding her that Psych is always an option.

She is tired again. She is always so tired. How can she be so tired when she's not even moving?

*

“Here, I made you a smoothie.” Maria hands her a large glass filled with a fluid that is a shocking shade of purple. She should give it to Clint. She's not thirsty, but she should probably drink it anyway.

“Thank you,” she says instead.

Maria fixes the blanket that has fallen slightly from her feet and fluffs her pillows as she sits down nearby with a book. Maria normally listens to music when she gets home from work, or at least she always happened to have music playing when Natasha would come by for dates. Maria does not play music now. The stereo sits silent, collecting dust.

She does not ask about the music.

She takes small sips of the smoothie. It tastes … alright. She knows it should have flavor, but she cannot find it on her tongue. But the weight of the liquid is not overwhelming, so continues. Knowing Maria, she's added Greek yogurt and whey or pea protein powder and nutritional yeast and anything else of substance she could cram in with the berries.

After a few minutes of silence, Maria asks about her pain level, and she does not seem pleased when the answer is merely, “Manageable.” Natasha cannot decide if the reaction is one of a partner or that of a handler. The latter is more likely.

She does not ask.

Over the course of ten minutes, Maria corrects the positions of her pillows two more times, and Natasha's hand twitches to swat her away before thinking better of it. When Maria reaches again, setting her book aside with one finger still tucked in to keep her place, Natasha glares.

Then she decides to ask, “Would you _stop_ it already?”

Maria stops. “Stop what, exactly?”

Natasha gestures vehemently at the silence and the smoothie dripping condensation and the overly fluffed pillows. “Just stop it!” she bursts. “What is your line of reasoning, you could not save me then, so you will smother me now?”

Natasha should have broken Maria's wrist instead; her face would have shown less pain. She says nothing. She stands on shaking legs, eyes downcast, and when the front door closes, the sound of the lock engaging echoes.

Natasha grips her blanket as tightly as her hands can manage and clutches at the brief flare of anger. She's angry, she's _angry_ , that's all this is, she just wants to be left alone, why won't anyone leave her _alone_.

If her body was working, she would destroy the whole apartment. Tear open all the pillows and couch cushions and Maria's mattress, smash all the dishes in the kitchen and that obnoxious blender for all those smoothies, take a hammer to the windows and the tech until her hands are blistered and her feet are bleeding from walking on glass and everything in her life is broken beyond repair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this space to thank you all for being so kind and patient. The pandemic has had a severe impact on my life, and writing is very difficult for me right now. I know how frustrating and disappointing it can be when a WIP is updated in such an irregular way, so I thank the fic subscribers in particular for acting with such compassion. Please continue to be patient with me, and take care of yourselves!


	8. No One Dumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Maria process their fight, with some help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is now a total chapter count! I think I've sketched out the rest of the plot in a way that I like, but the chapter count may change if I decide to do an epilogue, lol. But the end is in sight now!

Maria has driven through active war zones under heavy fire. She can drive like this, she assures herself. But she cannot go to her office like this. She cannot allow anyone to see her.

Except perhaps a friend.

The tires screech as she peels off onto a side street and parks abruptly. Traffic is slow enough she will be out of anyone's way. She wouldn't want to … smother anyone.

She heaves out a breath as slowly as she can. There is a vibration in her elbows, working its way up to her hands. She routes her call through the car's speakers.

The call is answered quickly. “Talk to me.”

He says that to everyone, all the time, but especially in the field. He wasn't supposed to be handling an op right now, but he may have picked up something when she wasn't looking. She hopes desperately that that is not the case. “Phil,” she chokes out.

She can hear papers shuffling, the clack of a coffee mug on a coaster. “Maria, what's wrong?”

“I messed up,” she admits. She really messed up. Everything, she's ruined everything. Casualties happen, losses pile up, it's that sort of job, but …

He doesn't even pause. “Work or Natasha?”

She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against the steering wheel. She's a coward and a failure. “Both.”

“I'm home. Come over; we'll talk it out.” There are more noises through the speaker. Rustling. Wheels on plastic. A door closing. He must be leaving his home office.

“Okay,” she agrees shakily. “Okay, I'm on my way.”

“ETA?” he asks, as if this was just another mission, another debrief.

She responds without thinking, “Fifteen, max.” At least it's accurate. Maria can make it fifteen minutes; she can handle that.

She stays fastidious about the rules of the road and parks at one of the metered spots directly in front of Phil's building. She pays for two hours, deliberates, and pays for another. Just in case. SHIELD can take care of any parking ticket she earns, of course, but she believes it is better to maintain a measure of accountability.

Sure, Maria thinks with a huff, she holds herself accountable just fine.

She lets herself into Phil's condo and does not bother to announce herself. He already knows she's here. This is made abundantly clear when she spots a cup of white tea steaming on the counter.

“I wasn't sure if you'd want honey,” he says from the other side of the room.

“This is fine, thanks.” She normally does like honey in her tea, especially at night. Natasha has often welcomed her home with a cup of white tea with honey. Not recently, of course. Natasha can barely walk.

She takes a shaking breath and walks to Phil's tiny dining room table that is almost never used. But it feels more neutral than sitting on a couch, somehow, and she appreciates how Phil follows her lead without any unkind words or questioning glances.

She takes a sip of her tea and finds it too hot for her tongue.

“Maria,” Phil says quietly, “Talk to me.”

“She said,” she begins slowly. “I was smothering her.” When she looks up to meet his eyes, they are impossibly kind. “And she's right, I am smothering her, I am, but I don't know how to _stop_.”

“Why are you smothering her?”

Phil is using the voice he normally reserves for Barton when he is being particularly obstinate for idiotic, self-destructive reasons. Maria pretends she does not notice and responds, “Because she's hurting and she physically _can't_ do things for herself right now, and it's _my_ responsibility to help her.”

“Why is it your responsibility?”

“Why – because I love her!” she sputters. Is there any doubt? Of course she loves her. Of course she is Maria's responsibility.

“You can love without smothering her.”

“I wish I knew how.” She is whining, she realizes. “I just want to protect her.” Phil seems disappointed, or maybe just resigned. She turns back to her tea.

“We work in a dangerous field, Maria. Natasha would not be happy in another career, and neither would you.” This is true, she can readily admit. This work is important, and it is good for both of them. At least, it used to be. “You say you want to protect her, when you have sent her to face warlords and arms dealers and hostile alien forces in the past. What has changed?”

The test results, the update. The way Natasha stood at the news, ready to run. The radio silence for thirty-seven hours. The blood, the bruises. Maria keeps her gaze fixed upon her cup.

“It is not his fault.”

She glares at him, almost bares her teeth as she growls, “Don't you think I _know_ that? If it were his fault, I would have killed him the second he returned! But I can't. Because it's not his _fault_ ,” she snarls. “So I have to sit at my desk and read reports and pretend I don't want to flay him alive for doing this to her. Or flay _myself_ alive for allowing it to happen.” She leans back in her chair and folds her arms. She let this happen.

And she has been trying to atone by being the perfect partner ever since, and providing for Natasha's every need, but it does not erase what she has done. She let a man hurt the woman she loves. Let someone hold her down and bruise her skin and break her ribs. She was the mission leader, she vetted that intel, she should have known about the mechanism, should have given them knowledge of the warning signs and plenty of protective gear, should have had their research wing perfect an antidote the second they heard of this pheromone-

“It is not your fault, either.”

“Yes it is, Phil,” she sighs. “It is.”

*

Natasha does not destroy Maria's apartment. She could not do that to Maria, not after everything else. But she sits with her anger for as long as she can keep it in her fists before finally deflating many minutes later.

She limps over to the kitchen, scoops up the basket from Pepper, and locks herself in Maria's bathroom. The bathroom is simple, nothing luxurious like the amenities in the Tower, but the bath tub can fit her well enough, keep her body comfortably submerged.

Natasha lights the vanilla bean scented candle Pepper has included in the care package, but her focus is on the glass jar with the fine, tan powder. _Colloidal oatmeal,_ Pepper has written on the lid, _enough for two relaxing baths_.

She has heard of oatmeal baths before. Pepper swears by milk and honey for herself, but Natasha supposes the oatmeal was probably safer in transit. She has never tried either, but she needs _something_ , and this is the only thing she can think of. If she can solve a single issue she currently faces, she may have the energy to solve the rest, and the unceasing itch under her skin seems like a suitable place to start.

So when the water warms, she lets the tub start to fill and pours half the powder into the stream. Mixing it in herself could not possibly be worth it, but thankfully, it does not seem necessary, with how quickly the water clouds.

Her eyes are fixed on the wall as she fumbles with her clothes. She does not like to look at herself. Before, it was unnecessary, and now … now, she does not want to.

She has to ease herself into the water, gripping at the sides of the bathtub with shaking hands. But she does feel relief as she fully tips back; she will have to thank Pepper for this.

She met Pepper undercover, while getting close to Tony to keep an eye on him and that armor of his. She met Pepper with a fake name and a fake hairstyle and a fake resume but real skills, and Pepper … Pepper knows everything now and has never held it against her. Tony felt betrayed by the deception, but Pepper accepted her right away, and she has never done anything to deserve it. She has never done anything to deserve such kindness. Pepper is the chief executive of a massive international company, and she still took the time to make this care package for her, and she can't even tell her why …

The bath water is quaking and her view is blurred and her breath, she cannot catch her breath, she's pinned down, he's got her pinned down, she cannot -

She jolts forward, muscles twitching and bones aching, and she folds around her legs and holds on tighter than anything, shaking and sobbing until her head throbs and her eyes are swollen and her throat is sore and her face is too hot and the water is too cold.

But at least her skin feels better. The last remaining rashes itch less. The realization makes her laugh, which makes her head and throat hurt even worse.

She scoots out of the bathtub and uses the gentle air dryer Reyes found for her after they realized how painful it was to use a towel on her abraded skin, even after the bleeding had stopped. By the time she is dry, she is shivering, and she cannot ascertain if she is simply cold or if she is recovering from crying so much. She is not sure what has exhausted her more, the fight or crying afterwards.

She has to sit down again to apply the antibiotic ointment, but the amount of skin she has to cover shrinks daily. Soon, her skin will be … almost back to normal. There are still some deeper bruises working their way through olive and yellow, especially near her ribs and along her right hip.

Natasha has never minded Bucky's arm, even though everyone else acts so wary, and even though Steve flinches every time the metal catches the light. Now she worries she will flinch too.

No. She will not. She can control herself, if it comes to that.

She remembers how his voice sounded, when he spoke of “the other end.” As the Winter Soldier, as a walking weapon, a person viewed as property ... he had been treated as a toy and a tool.

She understands. More than most, she understands.

And now, she knows, he fears he has been on the other end of it. But it is more of the same, for the both of them. Will they ever escape this?

She sighs and blows out the candle. Maria has kept a pile of clean clothes in the bathroom for her at all times, and she is grateful for it now, when she can stay safe in the locked room as she gingerly pulls on the loosest pants Maria owns and a soft sweatshirt that probably used to be Steve's.

When she steps out of the bathroom, Maria stands in the living room. It is too late to hide any tear tracks, so she does not bother. She stands there, fixed in her gaze, and from someone else, Natasha might feel uneasy under such focus, but this is Maria, and she has come back.

She shambles over, and Maria does not step back when she rests her forehead on her shoulder. She burrows closer, slowly bringing her arms around Maria's waist. “I am sorry for what I said,” she sniffles past the headache. “It was unkind and unfair.”

She feels the warmth of Maria's hands resting just behind her hips, avoiding the bruising though she has not seen any of it since the beginning. “I am sorry I left.”

*

The pencil lead breaks. Again. She has already broken it twice, and hobbled over to get a new pencil each time, but now she breaks the pencil in half and throws the pieces. It feels … _good_.

So she throws the book of crossword puzzles too, and watches it skid down the hallway, and then she tosses the pillow she'd been using as a desk, and the blanket that she'd draped over her lap. Too hot, everything is too hot, and she's crowded, so crowded...

“Tasha?” Maria's calm voice breaks through.

“What?” she snarls, tossing away another pillow. Everything is so _stupid_ , why can't she do anything _right_?

“Do you need anything?”

She wants to hiss at the stupidity, but instead, quickly as it grew, all of the fight drains out of her and she crumples. The heat suffocating her is all along her face now.

Maria sits up slowly from her seat on the other side of the couch. “Would you like some time to yourself?” she asks carefully.

She nods, feeling like a child being caught throwing a fit.

“Okay, I'll give you some space.” Maria sets aside her book and stands. “Thank you for telling me.”

When Maria leaves for her stroll, it becomes easier for Natasha to breathe. Sometimes, she does need space. And when Maria is understanding, that makes it easier too.


	9. The Fleeting Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is bored, and that's definitely not a good thing.

The weather is nice today, she notices. The sky is a lovely blue, little tufts of white flitting across. The wind must be strong today, something that could pretend to challenge Barton, perhaps. Maria opened the living room windows for her this morning before she left for work, and Natasha managed to fasten the curtains herself so she could enjoy the view. She finds herself looking longingly at the window every few minutes.

Natasha absently returns to the tome in her lap. _Olga_? What is Olga doing in this play, she wonders, she is not in _The Seagull_? She flips through the pages faster than she should, for it is a delicate binding, and she rechecks the title of the play – _The Three Sisters_. When did she begin _The Three Sisters_? She thought she was still reading _The Seagull_. She checks the page numbers again. She had seamlessly switched from one play to another without noticing. Somehow, she had not noticed.

Now that she considers the possibility, both plays have characters named Irina. And Masha, as well. Both very common in Chekov's works, and in Russia more broadly.

She misses her homeland. She does not admit this to anyone, not Clint nor Pepper, nor even Maria, but she notices she is not given assignments in Russia proper, even when the rest of the team is sent there. She is always on another op when it happens.

It may not be Maria's decision. If Natasha were Fury, she would not let her go to Russia either. She may not ever leave. Before Maria, it is possible she would have decided to stay. She is talented enough now to go back, in a delicate disguise. She could even live in a city, let herself be lost among the crowds so that she would not be seen. Moscow, perhaps.

She is Irina. Moaning longingly, _to Moscow_.

Natasha cannot read another play. She cannot complete another mindless, trivial puzzle. She switches to watching ballet. There are some decently recorded videos online of what Americans considered the great ballets, the ones their companies do over and over. She watches them all, until the music all runs together and the dancers' faces and arms and feet all look the same, the same sequences of balancés and assemblés and entrechats all seem copied and uncreative, the arabesques all seem stiff and … stale, somehow, like automatons dance the parts instead of people.

She wishes she could dance, with all this time she has in her days. It has been such a long time since she has stood on barre, posture perfect, hands sculpted but held in the air gently, like her grace is as easy as breathing. Run through her exercises, the positions, the routines she learned as a youth.

She is restless. She is _bored_. She is unaccustomed to being bored. Down time on an op was not a time for boredom. It was a time for complete calm.

Natasha used to be good at being calm. She used to be useful, too.

Maria will not let her read any intelligence reports. Technically, Natasha has been on medical leave because of her injuries, and this means SHIELD will not let her be involved in any work in any capacity, for at least another two weeks.

Dr Reyes can make another assessment then, to determine her wellness and workload, but Natasha is hopeful. She can walk now, easily and without pain, as long as she moves slowly. The swelling is all but gone, even along her pelvis, and the bruises on her sides have faded entirely. Her ribs are still tender, but she does her deep breathing exercises every two hours, as she is told by Dr Reyes. Soon, she will begin taking walks, breathing fresh air. Once Reyes signs off on it, she will be able to train again and regain all the muscle mass she has lost over the last month.

It will be some time before she can go out on assignment again. Perhaps months of training, going slowly so she does not aggravate her still-healing ribs. Clint will not understand; he pushes through all pain. Nor the others, for their faith in her. Her prowess convinces others she is invincible.

She is not.

*

She cannot move.

She cannot _move_.

Panic roils up in her throat, like she is choking on it, like she is drowning and her limbs are tied. There is a potent, suffocating pressure around her ribs, squeezing slow and tight, too tight, Bucky's metal arm, fingers pressing into her ribs, breaking, weight forcing her down into the mattress, pain flashing up through the darkness of exhaustion. She is so tired, so tired, and she cannot move, she cannot breathe, she does not want to breathe anymore...

Natasha opens her eyes wide, and she does not dare to breathe as she takes in her surroundings. Safe, she determines she is safe. She is in Maria's bedroom. She is in Maria's bed. It is not Barnes with her, it is Maria.

She focuses on how she knows this for certain. The closet door stands open with Maria's work uniform hanging prominently in the center. There are pictures standing on the dresser and hanging on the walls – of Maria's parents smiling proudly for her university graduation, of Maria and her sister in a sunny park, of Maria and Natasha and the rest of the guys from work in a rare trip to a public bar, even a lucky shot a civilian snapped of Natasha on the Chitauri vehicle in the Battle of New York. The soft sheets where she lies smell so much like Maria she wants to breathe in deep and long. She is safe, she reminds herself. Tries to believe it.

That horrid little voice returns, hissing in her mind, _You thought you were safe with Barnes, too_.

It is true. She did; she should be. James Barnes is her partner now, almost as often as Clint; it is known in SHIELD that Barnes and Rogers cannot be trusted to run ops together. She and Barnes work together well. Natasha trusts him. She trusted?

She cannot think of that right now. Maria's right arm is wrapped tightly around her ribs, she has pushed Natasha up onto her side and curled around her back like they sleep when … well, when Natasha has not been injured, even if they have not been able to be together, too tired to be intimate in that way.

It has been weeks since the … incident in the quinjet. Weeks without Maria's touch. Weeks of nights without Maria cuddling close. Surely her coming close now means something, subconsciously.

Her own reaction has proven she is not quite ready for what closeness would mean. But her own inadequacies is no reason for Maria to suffer.

Natasha closes her eyes and breathes through the pain. It is difficult to perform her breathing exercises while lying on her side and frozen in fear, but she pushes through them, over and over, until she finally, blissfully, loses consciousness.

*

They have discussed this. It feels as if they have discussed everything these last few weeks. Except, perhaps, what is most important.

Natasha and Maria do not discuss what happened. How it happened, how the bruises appeared. How Natasha felt, or even how Maria felt.

Maria has not mentioned any of it beyond direct physical needs, almost certainly to give her space, and Natasha has been more than content to accept that space and leave the pain to the past. But last night has given Natasha something new to ponder, and her conclusions are … less than satisfactory. Maria has been a stalwart partner through all of this, and Natasha has not had the decency to look after her partner's needs in return.

She approaches the topic over dinner. It has been quiet, but Maria learned from the beginning that Natasha required extra attention to eat anything now. At least she is well enough that they can eat at the bar instead of on the couch, all covered with napkins. “Maria.”

“Yes?” Her partner suspects nothing.

Why would she? She did not allow Maria to notice anything amiss last night. For Maria, nothing has changed – no new intel, no new actions.

“I wish to discuss something that occurred last night.” Maria says nothing, so Natasha continues, “In your sleep, you curled close to me.”

“I am sorry, I didn't realize. I know you need your space right now.”

“I do,” she agrees. She learned to appreciate cuddling, with Maria, but she has lost that appreciation somewhat after cuddling with someone else on a ruined mattress, covered in bruises. Bleeding. She holds back a shudder. “I understand it is possible that the action is meaningless. But I do wonder ...”

“Yes?”

She sighs. “I wonder if sex is something you miss. If you would like to sleep with someone else. It's okay. If you do. I'll understand.” She had thought about it all day, and if Maria wanted sex, well, Natasha could not perform that right now, and Maria should feel welcome to satisfy her needs somewhere else. With some _one_ else. For as long as she needs. Maria should not suffer because of Natasha.

The chair gives a horrible scraping sound as Maria stands. Her hands are shaking as she sets her silverware down on the counter. Natasha can tell she tried to put the fork and knife down straight along the cloth napkin, but the fork is pushed too far forward, and the knife's handle is hanging off the edge close to her plate.

“Absolutely not,” Maria bites out. She storms over to the front door, and there is the sound of clothing shuffling. “I will be out for … two hours. To cool off. I am not angry with you. I am upset, and I need some alone time. To think. I am not leaving you. I will be back.”

But when the door slams and the locks engage, Natasha does not put much stock in Maria's brittle reassurances.

Something of the tenor of the conversation … it leads Natasha to believe her conclusion was far off-base. If she had been right on target, Maria would have stormed out, yes, but she would not have explained herself before leaving.

Natasha moves around the bar and leaves their dishes in the kitchen sink. She is not wrong about Maria's desire for physical intimacy, she is sure of this. Maria has always made quite clear the priority she gives to such concerns whenever and wherever possible. Maria's ideal day off has always been spent in bed. Or occasionally on the couch. Once, memorably, up against a living room window. But always in various states of undress, with lots of skin contact. And Natasha knows how potent physical touch can be – she weaponizes it often enough on missions.

But relationships can change things. Perhaps it is not enough for Maria to have any contact at all. Perhaps she would not be satisfied by a stranger from a bar looking for release, or an acquaintance offering a favor.

Perhaps it has to be _her_.

Natasha checks her phone, some fancy thing Stark made for all his favorites at SHIELD. Maria even has one. Fury does not.

It has been less than a minute since Maria left, and there is no way Maria has called her, but she checks anyway.

There is a message from Pepper. With video.

She could click play. Watch whatever silly thing Pepper recorded in between board meetings and R&D checks and the wide range of galas she supports. Maybe a joke or two about Ms Rushman returning to work, if Pepper's latest assistant has proven disappointing.

But it is just as possible the message is soaked through with concern, and questions she does not care to answer. She did, after all, have Maria ask for a care package, and she does not know what Maria said to acquire one. She did not even thank Pepper for it, though it provided invaluable help those first few days when moving and eating and breathing all seemed impossible. How can she thank her now, after all this time?

She leaves the message unviewed. She does not need to be dealing with anything else tonight.

But Pepper must be testing some new feature of Stark's tech, because she sends a normal message a moment later:

_Your phone can receive videos, right? Tony said it could, and he can normally be trusted with that sort of thing. Unless he's dying again. God, I hope he's not dying again. I just miss you, that's what the video is about. Call me? We can get brunch this Thursday, or maybe next Tuesday? Let me know!_

Natasha does not respond. She cannot go to brunch. She cannot hear that anyone misses her. She cannot watch any videos of people she has not seen in weeks. There have been times where she did not need to see anyone, no matter the time without social contact, but it is not even that. She does not miss people, per se. She misses movement.

She misses feeling alive.

Before going to bed, she leaves a note on the bar, so that Maria will see it as soon as she comes home.

_I am sorry. I am feeling insecure. I do not know what to do._


	10. Some Idle Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for an overdue conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient while I wrote some fills for some bingos - three ended all at once, and it caught me off-guard, I'm sorry to say.
> 
> I cannot believe the amount of awesome support I've gotten for this story, and I am so, so grateful for you all. We are so close now!

Maria returned two hours later as she promised, Natasha's note clutched in her hand, and bent over the bed to kiss her forehead. She said she did not want anyone else. That Natasha would always be enough.

She wishes she could believe that, but even without the Red Room, there is always another, waiting to replace her. She is not the only agent capable of performing the tasks SHIELD requires. She is not the only woman capable of being in a relationship with Maria. There will come a time when she is not good enough. Or another time. She has not always been good.

There is a clatter at the window, and she has her weapon drawn within an instant. She puts it away a second later – it is only Hawkeye.

She takes stock of her surroundings. She has her medication calendar on the bar, her incentive spirometer lies on the coffeetable, and Barton will consider the stack of books next to her seat to be highly suspicious. This is all better than her mobility aids or the extra pillows to keep her always reclining or the tubes on ointment to help treat her bruises and abrasions.

He manages to get the window open and slips in without his normal grace; he must have deemed it unnecessary. There is a slim bandage over his left eyebrow, and a healing bruise shades the skin near his jaw. He looks well, all things considered.

“Heard you were down for the count.” There is suspicion in his eyes, but there is concern there too.

She shrugs. “Back on my feet now.”

“What happened?”

She retorts, “What have you heard?”

“Heard you got your ass handed to you on the mission to Ontario. Tossed out a window during an explosion. But Barnes won't talk about it, no one's seen you in weeks, and the SHIELD medbay reports are all classified. Little weird for a bad fall.”

“You could have had Stark hack in,” she suggests.

He shrugs. “Rather hear it from you.”

She is allowed to discuss it. For herself, for her health. Perhaps she should have talked to Bucky about this – what to say, when people ask. What has he been saying? Nothing to Clint, apparently, but to Steve? Tony? He must have told them something. She had not allowed herself to worry over it, but now she feels a kernel of concern. She does not have the necessary intelligence of _who_ knows _what_.

“You may sit.” He joins her on the couch, perching on the back to lean against the wall. He does not face her; he must have his hearing aids in.

So she tells him. The empul, the onset. He's heard of it before, so she does not have to explain the science behind it, or the inevitability of it all. She skates over the details, not wanting to dwell on it and not wanting him to hear it either. Neither does she list her injuries. But she confirms that she has been laid up since the mission recovering, and that Maria has been very supportive.

“And you two are okay?”

Her voice is sharp now when she bites out, “What have you heard?”

“Nothing, Nat. Just wondering. Empul couldn't've been easy.”

“No. It was not.” She takes a deep breath. “We're working through it. Some days are better than others.”

They sit in silence for minutes. They have sat in silence together before; it is nothing new for them. Hawkeye in his perch, Widow in her position on the street, already in character. Finally, he asks, “You gonna be okay, Nat?”

She gives the slightest nod. “Yeah,” she admits. “I think so.”

He stands easily and returns to the window.

“You can use the door, you know.”

“Nah,” he says with a smirk. “No fun in that.” He tosses one leg out of the window and moves to swing his torso through.

She tacks on quickly, “And Clint? Keep this to yourself.”

He gives one of his silly salutes. “Hang in there.”

*

It will be a long day, and the headache at the base of her skull is only making matters worse. Maria hopes a break away from her desk will clear her head, and she is a bit overdue for a meal, so some time in the cafeteria can only prove beneficial.

Like most cafeteria fare, it is bland and the temperature is lacking, but the food itself provides necessary nutrients and calories, and she does not ask for much more.

Maria is ruminating over her coffee and the latest issue with Asgard when a throat is cleared over her. She looks up by rote – she grew accustomed to interruptions long before she was promoted to Deputy Director – and she grows still.

James Buchanan Barnes, known as Bucky to his friends and Winter Soldier to Hydra's enemies, stands over her. SHIELD has not yet replaced the codename, largely because Barnes has proven resistant to any codename at all. “May I join you, Director?”

She nods. She feels the need to clear her own throat now, but she sips her coffee instead. Whatever the topic of conversation, this won't be comfortable. And they both already know what the topic will be, the only thing it can be.

He clutches his hands on top of the table and says quietly, “I hear Agent Romanova is still recovering.”

“Yes,” she responds, just as quietly. She has kept a very tight lid on Natasha's status, because she knows Natasha will want the chance to return to work without everyone knowing what has happened or treating her any differently. She deserves that chance. Maria will not ruin that for her now.

“Is … is she okay?”

She can feel her lips flinch, but she does not snarl. Natasha would want her to keep her head. Natasha _needs_ her to keep her head. “She will be,” she says as calmly as she can.

Barnes sits, staring at his hands. His flesh hand is trembling.

“I'm sorry,” he chokes out, and his entire face warps with the strain of his memories. His nightmares.

He looks _haunted_. She hates him for it.

“I didn't mean to hurt her, but I didn't – I couldn't -”

“Barnes,” she cuts in.

She takes in a deep breath, pulls the rage away from her fists and back into her core. Natasha was the one to teach her how to do that; how to feel emotions in her body and pull them back. Staring into his eyes becomes too difficult so she switches to staring at his arm. Metal forced upon him, to forge him into a weapon. Barnes has been brutalized for decades, taken and tortured, arm ripped off and replaced, brain fried and body frozen. He does not deserve her anger.

He has it all the same.

“Barnes, you know better than anyone how to apologize for a wrong you committed that you had no control over.” What a horrible thing it is, to know how to apologize for such a thing. It should not be necessary, but it is. It should make her feel better, but it doesn't. “You also know that this does not make it easier to forgive, or for the grief to pass. Please rest assured, I am a professional, but that comfort is all I can give you.” Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

She hates herself for it. The way the rage rushes through her at the sight of him, the sight of his hands. He left bruises with those hands, all over Natasha. She tried to shield Maria from them, but they were everywhere, all along her sides and arms and thighs, and she needed too much help with moving her body and applying the ointments in the beginning. Maria had seen them all. She had tried not to catalogue each injury; she had failed. She can remember them all, every press of his finger, every indention from his teeth. She found Natasha bleeding and brittle, but not broken. It wasn't his fault, but Natasha still suffered, more than anyone should ever have to, more than Natasha should have ever had to suffer again.

Barnes must see something in her own face. He stands, and maybe he says something, but she cannot register any words, and then he leaves.

She has failed in her duties.

Again.

*

Natasha freezes, and a few seconds later, she sees Maria realize it. Her face crumples, like all of the anger has been torn out of her.

“It's fine,” she says quickly. Maria has been under a great deal of stress, and having her here, disrupting her routine, cluttering her home, only increases that stress.

Maria is still staring at her, mouth hanging open, eyes wide in shock. She needs to rest, Natasha thinks. She needs a vacation. “I'm sorry,” she spits out finally. “Bad day. Need some alone time. I'll be in the bedroom.” She does not storm off, but each step is measured, too light, she's not storming because she's overcorrecting, and maybe that's worse.

She sits at the bar and runs through her breathing exercises. And then she does them again. At least her hands have stopped shaking. She feels almost like herself again. And it is time to act.

Maria did not ask for this. She did not ask for her home to be invaded, or for her entire life to be rearranged to offer Natasha care. She did not ask for an overflowing medicine cabinet or an overworked blender or what feels like a thousand pillows in the living room. But she let Natasha live with her anyway, let her life be overrun.

Maria deserves better. Natasha can be better.

She finds Maria's cleaning supplies and sets herself to work. She cannot quite reach over her head yet, she cannot risk the healing her ribs have accomplished thus far, so she does not dust the ceiling fans or light fixtures. But she dusts the entertainment center, cleans the surfaces that are used more frequently, and folds the extra blankets and fluffs the extra pillows in the living room. She loads the dishwasher, polishes the sink, and is sanitizing the countertops when Maria reenters the room.

She looks tired, and sad. Almost … disappointed?

But she comes close and brushes her lips across Natasha's temple, and when they go to bed an hour later, Maria does not seem so sad. So maybe her work is appreciated anyway.

The next morning, she wakes long before Maria. Her body is recovered for the most part. Her skin has healed completely, and Dr Reyes believes the risk of pneumonia has passed, so even her ribs do not give her any cause for concern. But there is still the matter of returning her relationship with Maria to what it once was. They have lost both distance and proximity; they live together, sleep beside each other, but they do not have sex as they used to. With the exception of that one painful night with Maria sleeping so close, holding her so tightly, they have not attempted it.

Natasha is still hesitant. She is not sure Maria wants her any more. It is even worse to imagine that Maria may want more from her than she can give. But this will never be settled until they confront it, and this morning is as good as any. She might as well … get this all over with.

She does not like having her back to Maria in this way, so she twists to face her. Maria stirs, but she has not quite woken. Natasha kisses her fingers, coiled close to her face. Natasha lets her mouth linger on Maria's bare shoulder, and when Maria hums in contentment, she knows Maria is awake. She kisses along Maria's jaw, soft and sweet just like Maria likes in the morning, and then she feels Maria's hand slide down her back.

Then she feels Maria jolt away, and her eyes fly open to see Maria's staring at her in horror.

Her stomach grows cold and sour. She has failed. She is not good enough.

“I'm so sorry!” Maria gasps out as she crawls out of bed and snatches up her bathrobe. Her hands are shaking as she ties it closed. “I didn't mean to-”

“I meant to,” Natasha explains, sitting up slowly.

“You – you don't want that,” Maria declares. Her voice is shaking, and her shoulders are heaving. It is the closest to panic she believes she has ever seen Maria, even worse than when she'd been shot on an op gone sideways, and Maria had been the one to press on the wound while the med evac came. “You don't want this, it's okay, Nat, you don't have to do this.”

“I _do_ want to do this,” she insists. She feels childish, digging in her heels when mere minutes ago she felt unsure. She wants this, in a fashion. She wants to return to how they used to be, when things were easy and nothing hurt and they never fought because there was never any need for it. Sometimes it feels as though all they do now is fight.

Maria's shoulders drop. “Natasha,” she says with a sigh.

She turns away. She will not be spoken down to, as if she were a child or a fool. If Maria does not want her, she will leave.

She blocks out everything around her as she shoves her feet into shoes and grabs the spare key. She knows Maria is saying something to her, but she refuses to listen. Maria is allowed to storm out whenever she pleases, is it not her turn now? She reminds herself of this as she closes the front door, locks it, and storms down the hall.

Natasha has made it halfway down the block before she remembers she has nowhere to go.


	11. I'm So Proud To Know That She Is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things need to be said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! I've had so much fun writing this, and it was a serious challenge writing a fic over 2k, lol, but I'm very happy and proud that I did it. Let me know what you think!

After she locks the front door behind her, she leans back, letting the door take all her weight and keep her standing. She keeps her eyes fast on her feet. Maria is keeping her distance, standing close to the bar.

Then Natasha looks up to her, eaten up with sorrow and loneliness, and Maria rushes close and hugs her, tight on her shoulders but not on her ribs, and Natasha's arms are tucked over Maria's hips, and she smells like melons and the skin on her neck is soft and her lips are soft on Natasha's hair, and leaving the apartment for the first time in weeks should not have been terrifying but it was, and she is so happy to be _home_.

“Are you alright?” Maria breathes in her ear.

She nods against Maria's shoulder.

“Would you like to talk?”

She nods again, and they move over to the couch. Maria looks expectantly at her, and Natasha sighs quietly and voices the insecurity that's been biting her for the last hour, for the last few weeks, “Do you not want me anymore?”

“Of course I do, Natasha,” Maria insists, and she sounds sincere, “But I was worried too. It …” Maria sighs and takes her hands gently, rubbing her thumbs across Natasha's knuckles. “I was reminded of our fight two weeks ago. When you offered to let me sleep with someone else. You believed you were offering me something that I wanted, and you behaved as if you wanted that too. Neither of us would have been happy with that arrangement.”

Natasha nods. It is true that she did not want Maria to find someone else.

“And today, it seemed to me that you had modified the parameters of that offer. That you offered to let me sleep with you, even though you did not want that. But I do not need sex from you right now, and if you never want to have sex again, I want you to know that I support you. That I will be _here_ for you.” Maria squeezes her hands. Then she smiles. “You're sexy, Nat, you've always been sexy, and of _course_ I want you. But that's not _why_ I'm with you. You're so,” she brings up Natasha's hands and kisses her knuckles, “So much more than that to me. I love you.”

Natasha leans in to kiss Maria, and she remembers why she chose Maria all those years ago, the strength and dedication and fierce loyalty, the devotion she would so clearly demonstrate for her, and Natasha had thought with everything else in her life so unstable, the love of a good woman would be more than enough for her.

“Say it again,” she says. She wants to feel the words on Maria's lips with her own, wants to know how they taste.

“I love you.” Maria says it like it is the simplest thing in the world.

When she kisses Maria, she remembers all the fear and the fury she felt, when she joined SHIELD, when she was quarantined with Barnes, and it does not matter anymore, the only thing that matters is Maria – her lips, her hands, the warmth of her body.

Natasha does not remember climbing atop of Maria's lap, but she is there now, and her legs are spread but she does not feel vulnerable, she feels safe and warm and loved. “Say it again,” she says, and this is not desperate, this is just what she needs.

Maria's hands are careful on her hips, but her kisses are strong and sweet and passionate, and when Natasha breaks away to breathe, Maria's lips are hot and wet on her neck, teeth pressing on her pulse point but not biting down. “I love you.”

When she shifts on Maria's lap, she feels a familiar warmth spreading through her like syrup. She wants, she _wants_ \- “Will you go down on me? Please?”

Maria meets her eyes very pointedly. “Yes. For you, anything.”

“Because you love me?” Here is the same inclination to prod at a bruise to test the pain.

“Because I love you.” Maria has never looked more sure of anything in her life.

“I love you too.”

They share one more kiss, then Natasha takes Maria's hand and pulls her to their bedroom.

*

Natasha stands in front of the primary entrance to Avengers Tower, staring up at all the rows of windows. Maria offered to come with her, but Natasha told her to go to work as normal; her return will be momentous enough without telling the team about the two of them. _That_ conversation can wait.

They discussed her staying at Maria's permanently as well, but she decided against it. Professionally, it would be easier to mobilize the Avengers if they were convened. And personally … it is clear they need space. _Natasha_ needs space. They were not quite ready to live together. But one day, Natasha would like to live with Maria again. Without the unfortunate circumstances forcing their hands.

She rearranges her bag's position on her shoulder – she has grown too accustomed to allowing herself nervous habits, she will have to put a stop to that immediately – and strides forward.

All of her entrance protocols remain unaltered. Jarvis welcomes her to the Tower with his usual courtesies, and he informs her the team is gathered in the communal kitchen.

There is chaos when she joins them, everyone rushing about and asking questions and telling her everything she has not witnessed while she has been recovering from her _fall_. Steve and Thor have become quite the gossips while she has been away, informing her of possible scandals. Tony spends several minutes briefing her on an updated suit more suitable to shock absorption and more resistant to concussive force, but she knows this is his way. Bruce simply nods at her and gives a gentle smile, and Clint is practically ignoring her, doing his best to flick snap peas into Thor's food.

Only Bucky is missing.

As the days pass and the rest of the team settles back to normal, Bucky continues to keep his distance. She cannot fault him this; any time he enters the room, her stomach clenches, and only her years of training keep the tension from showing on her face. She does not allow herself to leave the room because of it, but she finds herself withdrawing from the conversation all the same.

Steve helps her craft a reduced training schedule to rebuild her muscle mass and restore her agility; Dr Reyes signs off on it as long as she also meets with a physical therapist once a week. When silence falls, he gives her long, steady looks. Whatever Bucky told him, it was not the full story. It is clear he has no idea what transpired; if he had, he would be sending her pitiable glances and apologizing on Bucky's behalf and breaking through another dozen of reinforced punching bags.

Bruce has no reason to know. While he and Bucky have bonded over their shared experiences – the Hulk, the Soldier, they are not so different – Natasha has no reason to believe they have bonded. Even settled in with the team, Bruce Banner prefers to spend his time alone. =

Thor knowing is laughable. Oh, she is sure he would notice the awkward tension if he shared a room with them, since Thor has a keen eye for relationships, but thankfully, the god is far too busy with his many responsibilities to spend significant time with them. Often, he is on Asgard. Even when on Earth, he is rarely in New York.

Knowing Barton, he has already told Bucky that he knows about the empul in some flippant remark that communicates sympathy while reinforcing some threats should Natasha handle their reunion poorly.

But Tony... Stark feigns ignorance of social concerns to escape anything he deems unnecessarily uncomfortable, and he is better at pretense than most. She studies him, on the odd occasions he pokes out from his workshop.

He studies her in return, and he does this with purpose. He only appears when she is alone in a common area, and finally, she meets his gaze and dares him to say something.

He is not his typical bed-raggled, science-drunk self when he asks, “You okay, Romanova?”

“Professional curiosity, Mr Stark?” she retorts. Fury had sworn she would have to sleep with Stark to get her cover deep enough, and he had not listened when she insisted it would not be necessary. And she had been right; Stark had feigned interest well enough to incite Pepper's attention, but it had only been to distract Pepper from his dire situation.

He had been resistant to working with her, at first. Spies are not welcome friends to many. He does not distrust her now.

“Personal,” he responds quietly, and their eyes connect for another long moment.

“I will be.”

*

She has found herself restless. She had thought the increased exercise would offset the loneliness, but Natasha had liked going to bed with Maria every night. Alone, her once comfortable bed seems large and cold.

She pulls on thick socks and moves to the communal kitchen. Bruce leaves his least favorite tea there for everyone to share, and she does not mind the bitter taste. She has barely started the kettle when she discovers she is not alone.

Or perhaps she is, she thinks as she moves closer. Barnes is on the couch, but his mind is not here with her. He sits straight and still, eyes wide as he stares into something only he can see. “Barnes?” she calls quietly from the kitchen. He makes no indication of hearing her.

She approaches him cautiously. He became this way often when they first recovered him, but he had been doing better, practicing staying in the moment, in what is _here_ and _now_. Something must have pushed him back.

It is her fault. Seeing her after what transpired on the quinjet, it has forced him into old defenses, into fleeing so far into his own mind that nothing can reach him.

She has not given his suffering much thought these past few weeks. She had to recover, and her focus had been on her body and her relationship with Maria. Barnes's body had healed before she had woken after the incident, and he is not romantically involved with anyone. This does not mean he has not been hurt.

This does not mean he does not need support.

She sits on the couch with him, as far away as she can, but enough to jostle the cushions should he be vigilant. He does not react.

They sit together. She slowly creeps closer to him, until their thighs are mere inches apart. He has never been violent with her when he comes back to himself, but he has been known to lash out if it is Steve, and none of them are quite sure why. She cannot be sure how he will react tonight.

They were friends, before this. Partners. They read rooms the same, charmed their way out of most situations, and fought in sync when charm was not enough. Bucky is the only one with whom she shares her good vodka.

She places her hand on his. He does not move, but she hears a sharp inhale. Many minutes later, when his breathing hitches again and his hand twitches under hers, she knows he is back with her.

She does not move away. Neither does he.

*

It has been four months to the day her strongest agents were dosed with Pseudophilias-Empulcoitus. Romanova is back on the active list, Barnes has gone back to only meeting his therapist once a week whenever stateside, and Rogers reports they have returned to their prior amicable relationship, though not in so many words. They are ready.

And so is she.

Maria marches up to Barnes sitting in the cafeteria. “Agent Barnes, might I have a word?”

“Of course, Director,” he says as he gestures to the seat across from him.

“No, thank you, this will only take a moment,” she explains and then passes over the file she has prepared. “We have a new assignment for you and Romanova. Recon in Serbia.”

He regards her with caution, but his hand already rests on the paperwork. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow, 0500.”

For a long moment of silent reflection, she fears she has misread this, that he will have to turn this mission down, that he will resign from the Avengers.

But after that moment, he simply nods and responds, “I'll be there.”

“Very well,” she says, and then she turns on her heel. When she returns to her office, Natasha is sitting at the desk in her newly redesigned uniform. In Maria's heart, there is only forgiveness and love.


End file.
